


Something Fierce and Painful

by Plenoptic



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Family, Get out of here Trespasser, M/M, Non Trespasser compliant, Post Game, kidfic!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-05-24 13:59:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6155915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know, most couples would take a minimum of eighteen months to produce two children.”</p><p>Bull grins. “It is way, way too late for us to be like most couples.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Imekari

**Author's Note:**

> There will be more of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 3/7: Now gorgeously illustrated by lonicera-caprifolium.tumblr.com
> 
> Thank you so much, kadan~

The Iron Bull can hardly stand it—the waiting. It feels like years that Dorian is gone, even though it’s only a few weeks at most. But Corypheus is fallen, Dorian has done a six month stint in Tevinter, is finally ready to be rid of the place for good. They share a room in Skyhold—Bull’s old room, though now the hole in the roof is patched—and it is filled with memories and whispers of their time together. Dorian has a vanity and Bull has a whetstone; their clothes occupy the same space, shoved into drawers, tossed over the back of chairs, scattered across the floor. Dorian keeps a bookshelf; Bull keeps a rock collection. Because, hell,  _rocks_. Because why not. It’s been two years. Good years.

 

But the bed is lonely when Dorian is gone. It smells of his cologne and sweat and the sex they manage to still have on a regular basis, but it is cold and uncomfortable without the mage’s weight and heat. Bull lays awake late into the night, remembering darker times, times when he wouldn’t bat his single eye at sleeping by himself. Now he can’t rest unless he feels Dorian’s arm around his waist, Dorian’s soft hair beneath his fingertips, Dorian’s sweet lips tracing his jaw.

 

Four weeks. Feels like fucking years. The Inquisitor is so glad to have Dorian back; he’s been with her on every venture from Skyhold lately, and it’s great to see them together again, so close it’s as if they were never apart, but damn, does Bull wish he were the sole focus of his husband’s attentions.

 

(Oh—and they got married. But it was such a natural thing, a confirmation more than an actual step in their relationship. The significance of it still kind of goes over Bull’s head, but when they meet new folks at Skyhold and Dorian gets to say “This is my husband,” the way he still goes a little breathless and his eyes light up and he seems so excited he can hardly knit words together—yeah. Despite the uniquely human weirdness of it all, it’s worth it. Worth it to give his  _kadan_  the one thing Dorian has always really,  _really_  wanted.)

 

Four weeks go by, and when the Inquisitor and her party return, Bull is there to greet them at the stables. Dorian climbs down from his dracolisk and Bull moves to hug him, hold him—wants nothing more than to pull Dorian’s body up against his and kiss all the breath from his pretty mouth—but the mage jumps back when Bull reaches for him. It takes a second for Bull to see why, Ben-Hassrath and all, because Dorian is guarding it so safely.

 

There’s a little bundle clutched against Dorian’s chest—a swaddling, if you will, and Bull knows there’s only one thing in the human world that gets swaddled that carefully. Dorian winces and lowers the hand he’s raised to keep Bull from crushing the precious bundle.

 

“They were going to kill him,” he says quietly, and lowers his arm to show Bull the child.

 

* * *

 

Every now and again, on their excursions, the Inquisitor and her party still disturb creepy little nests of residual Venatori. This time they stumbled into what was definitely a blood ritual, from the way Dorian’s eyes darken and turn thunderous when he tells the tale. These particular Venatori had gone nearly mad, trapped out in the Hissing Wastes for months on end. They’d been preparing to sacrifice the child born to one of their own just a year before. When the mother tried to stop them, they cut her down.

 

“What were they sacrificing it to?”

 

“Corypheus—what else?”

 

“Shit.”

 

“Shit indeed.”

 

Dorian had killed them. Apparently. Grabbed one of them by the face and filled his head with lightning and stood there seething in the gore, expression unreadable, and Evelyn—who bore the mark of the Herald like she was a goddess herself, who faced down Corypheus, who led an Inquisition— looks a little afraid just remembering it. Dorian had stabbed the other with the end of his staff, impaled him through the gut, and left the Venatori writhing in agony while he gently picked up the blood-covered little ‘Vint and carried him from the camp.

 

“Is he too little to remember, you think?”

 

“Maker, I hope so.”

 

“He’s ours now, isn’t he.”

 

“If you’ll have him.”

 

“You want a family,  _kadan_?”

 

“If it’s with you.”

 

“Well, it sure as hell ain’t gonna be without.”

 

Dorian had climbed into his lap and kissed him then. Sometimes, the Iron Bull thinks that maybe he’s in too deep.

 

* * *

 

The Iron Bull—once known as Imekari, then Ashkaari (though only playfully, Tama liked to tease), then Hissrad, now a Tal-Vashoth, a mercenary, one of the meanest fuckers in Thedas—now not only has a husband, but a son, to boot.

 

A cute husband. And a cute son. Both ‘Vints, and Bull’s head still kind of reels when he thinks about that too long.

 

And it seems like their kid might die.

 

He’d been kind of drifting anyway, when they found him, but the ride back to Skyhold really seemed to take it out of him. At a year old he should be babbling, laughing, maybe even trying to stand up on chubby little legs, but it’s like there’s nothing in him.

 

He’s dark, like Dorian is dark—big sweet brown eyes and curly black hair and skin that looks and smells like summer heat. Dorian holds him all the time, and the little tyke just lays there, head on the mage’s shoulder, blinking sleepily and drooling a bit. They try to get him to eat and he won’t; Bull soaks a washcloth in milk and they can get the babe to suck on it a little, but it’s certainly not enough to keep him alive.

 

Three days after they’d returned to Skyhold, and the kid still isn’t eating. Dorian holds the pipsqueak against his shoulder and cries, cries for this kid he has known for seventy-two hours, cries very quietly, maybe so Bull won’t hear.

 

But he does. And it breaks his fucking heart.

 

* * *

 

Something’s happened—something at the base of the mountain. Evelyn begs Bull to come with her, and at first he outright refuses, because Dorian hasn’t really slept in sixteen hours, too worried about the child who still won’t move or talk or eat. Instead he sits upright on their bed, dozing uneasily, waking every few minutes with a start and checking to see that the little ‘Vint is still breathing.

 

“Harding says there are bodies at the bottom of the mountain,” Evelyn says, and Bull isn’t convinced until she adds: “And they’re qunari.”

 

“Go,” Dorian murmurs, maybe sensing Bull’s hesitation. Bull kisses him softly and promises to be back soon. (Before the kid dies, he thinks, but doesn’t say. If Lil ‘Vint dies, Dorian is going to need him.)

 

The Iron Bull treks down the mountain with Evelyn and Cullen in tow. There’s too much snow for the horses, even for the destriers, but Bull is too amped up to notice the cold, even though his breath clouds in front of his face with every step and he can hear Evie’s teeth chattering.

 

Harding and three scouts are waiting for them at the bottom of the trail two hours later. The dwarf’s face is drawn and tense, brows furrowed, and she’s watching two of her boys try to start a fire.

 

She’s also got something cradled against her chest, seems to be near-buckling under its weight. There’s blood in the snow. A fuck-ton of it. Blood and—something else, something gross. But Bull recognizes the way she’s holding that bundle and thinks  _Oh, fuck all._

 

“She was pregnant,” Harding says by way of greeting, and points at one of the bodies lying in the snow, covered with a blanket, but the blood between her legs has seeped through, a horrid crimson rose. “In labor when we found her.”

 

Bull takes in the scene with keen Ben-Hassrath eyes, but there’s not much to see. Three qunari, one female at least—the other two bodies, though covered, look big enough to be male. An overturned cart lays beside them, half-buried in the snow. There’s just one horse. Dead. Evelyn and Harding talk, Cullen hovers, and Bull slowly closes the distance between himself and the female qunari’s body. He kneels and twitches the blanket down from her face. She looks peaceful, at least. Both of her lips are lined with tiny dots of scars.

 

“Saarebas,” he says, when he feels Evie come to stand behind him. And this far from the homeland, escorted by two males, heading for Skyhold, she’s not Qunari but Tal-Vashoth.

 

“Bull—her child still lives.”

 

He knows what he should do—he knows. There are lots of folks in Skyhold. Lots of couples. Hell, Evie and Cullen are married now. And she’s hiding the soft swell of her belly the best she can, but Bull is Ben-Hassrath and that’s not the sort of thing he misses. What’s one more kid? And he thinks of Dorian, already pushed past his limits, sitting in their room with Lil ‘Vint dying in his lap, Dorian who needs him desperately.

 

But Harding comes over to them, and he can see the infant between the blankets, all sleek and small and wet. Its skin is a light blue-grey. Pretty. It’s got a soft fuzz of white hair between the two little raised patches on its scalp that will someday be horns.

 

“Boy or girl?”

 

“Boy,” Harding says, without missing a beat.

 

“Name?”

 

“She didn’t give him one before—um. No.”

 

The Iron Bull stands. He opens his arms, and Harding hands him the newborn babe. The qunlet doesn’t stir when he takes it and holds it close. It’s not Qunari but  _qunari_. One of his. And something fierce and painful lodges somewhere behind his sternum, in the place where so far there’s only been Dorian.

 

* * *

 

 Dorian is surprised, yes, but not angry. He still has Lil ‘Vint in his arms, rocking the child slowly and humming a soft lullaby in Tevene when Bull enters the room. Bull talks first, before Dorian can even open his mouth.

 

“I know there are others who could take him. I know we’ve got our hands full. But he’s gonna know that he was taken in, that his real ma is dead. And he’s gonna know that I’m the only other qunari around. I’m gonna wind up being the only one who gets him, who can help him be qunari without the Qun. I may as well be his.”

 

Dorian looks at him for what seems to be a long time. And then he nods.

 

“You know, most couples would take a minimum of eighteen months to produce two children.”

 

Bull grins. “It is way,  _way_  too late for us to be like most couples.”

 

“That’s very true.” Dorian pats the bed beside him, and Bull sits down. They trade munchkins; Bull holds Lil ‘Vint against his chest and sighs in relief when he feels tiny, fluttery little breaths against his collarbone.

 

He looks at Dorian. The mage holds the qunlet carefully, eyes wide, stroking a thumb over the baby’s brow, over the not-even-quite nubs of his horns. He breathes, “ _Oh_ ,” like a prayer, and Bull’s heart  _sears_  with love. He reaches and takes his husband’s hand. Dorian looks up at him with watering eyes.

 

“They’re ours.”

 

“Yeah.”  _And you’re mine_ , Bull thinks, but doesn’t say.  _And I’m the luckiest asshole in the world._

 

* * *

 

 Lil ‘Vint is not only just alive on day four, but  _living_. Dorian and Bull fall asleep sitting up against the headboard; with nowhere to put them and no clue how to lay down on the bed without crushing them in their sleep, they keep the little ones in their laps all night. Bull wakes with Dorian’s head upon his shoulder and tilts his jaw so he can kiss his husband’s hair.

 

And then he hears it.

 

“Buh.”

 

It’s nothing—he’s pretty sure “buh” is nothing—but he looks down all the same and finds Lil ‘Vint staring up at him, one finger in his mouth, dark eyes wide and curious.

 

“Buh,” the child repeats, and lays his head back down on Dorian’s shoulder. He chews on his finger. “Buhh. Bee.”

 

The Iron Bull stares, and Lil ‘Vint stares back. And then Lil ‘Vint  _moves_ , more than he’s moved the entire time he’s been in Skyhold, reaching out with one little hand and waving it at the qunlet tucked in Bull’s arm.

 

“ _Buhhh_ bee.”

 

“Baby,” Bull says, realization dawning. He jabs Dorian hard in the ribs and the mage wakes with a snort. “Yeah. That’s right. Baby.” He scoots closer, angling the infant so Lil ‘Vint can see. “It’s a baby. Qunlet, we call ‘em.”

 

“Bee,” Lil ‘Vint says, satisfied, then buries his face in Dorian’s shirt.

 

“ _Fasta vass_ ,” Dorian says weakly, running a hand over the child’s hair. “He  _spoke_.”

 

“We should try and feed him.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Bull takes Lil ‘Vint in his free arm while Dorian hurries downstairs. He’s back in a few minutes, carrying a tray with three steaming bowls of fresh oatmeal. He pulls Lil ‘Vint into his lap and croons down at him, nudging his lips with a spoon, and after a moment the child opens up his mouth and lets himself be fed. He chews and swallows and opens his mouth again, and the grin Dorian turns to Bull is absolutely radiant.

 

 

* * *

 

They’re not sure how to go about giving the kids a bath, but they both desperately need it. Their tub is massive, the biggest Josie could dredge up (actually it was a wedding present, the best they got by far)—big enough that Dorian and Bull can both sit in it on either end, though there isn’t quite enough leg room. They wind up sandwiched in with Dorian’s ankles resting on Bull’s thighs. Dorian draws his fire glyphs on the water’s surface and lets Lil ‘Vints toes dip in before he carefully lowers the child onto his legs, holding him upright. The kid just kinds of sits, blinking sleepily, and lets Dorian wash his hair.

 

Bull cleans up the qunlet, holding the little tyke to his chest, well above the water. Harding did a fair job, but there’s still blood clinging in some places, and it’s a relief to get the little thing looking ship-shape. The infant doesn’t cry—didn’t cry that night, either—and Bull realizes with a funny jolt in his gut that they’re going to need a wetnurse if this is going to work.

 

“There must be someone,” Dorian murmurs, sensing Bull’s thoughts, and smiles a little when Bull looks up at him and grunts. “It’ll be alright,  _amatus_. We’ll figure it out.”

 

* * *

 

They don’t have any clothes. Not a problem for the qunlet, whom they just swaddle in a blanket, but Lil ‘Vint is a year old and it’s not easy to just wrap him up. Dorian finds an old shirt and cuts off most of the trailing hem and snugs it over Lil ‘Vint’s tiny body. They’re gonna have to get small smallclothes. Smallsmallclothes. Tiny smallclothes. And tiny shoes. And tiny socks. Bull sits there in a daze, thinking about all the tiny stuff they’re gonna need, while Dorian gets both kids beneath the blankets on their bed. Qunlet is out like a light; Lil ‘Vint lays there blinking for a few moments before he rolls over and closes his eyes.

 

“We should go—um—talk to someone,” Dorian says, turning to his husband and blinking, looking a little shell-shocked, like he’s just realized how far in over their heads they are. “About getting—things we—things we need.”

 

“Can we leave them?”

 

“Oh. Um. No. I suppose we can’t.”

 

“I’ll go.” Bull gets to his feet and draws Dorian close, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “Like you said. We’ll figure it out. Why don’t you try and get some sleep?”

 

“I can—”

 

“Nah. Sleep, babe.” Bull kisses his hair and turns him toward the bed, giving his arse a gentle pat. “Don’t roll over the munchkins.”

 

“I would never,” Dorian huffs. He heads to the bed and draws the blankets back—and then he  _gags_ , spinning away from the bed and clapping a hand over his mouth.

 

“What?!” Bull all but leaps over to the bedside, and then it hits him—holy shit, the  _smell_. He blinks and backs up, startled, presses a hand to his nose. “Oh. Uh.”

 

“Nappies,” Dorian wheezes, eyes watering, and grasps Bull’s wrist. “Oh  _no_. Children don’t know how to use a  _privy_. We need  _nappies_.”

 

Bull kind of wants to laugh, hearing the illustrious Dorian Pavus fit his pretty lips around the word  _nappies_ , but then Lil ‘Vint stirs, whines, and starts to  _wail_.

 

And fuck all, there is  _nothing_  funny about that.

 

* * *

 

 

Evelyn knocks on the door. Waits. Knocks again, a little louder. She can hear muffled voices within, and something else—like a cat yowling, or  _something_. She frowns and presses her ear to the door. Knocks once more. When no one answers, she opens it with a sigh.

 

She had known from the start that this was going to be a disaster, but she couldn’t have guessed just how bad it was going to be. Bull and Dorian’s room looks like a damn warzone, blankets thrown all over the floor, and they  _reek_. Dorian is holding the little Tevinter, rocking the child in his arms while Lil ‘Vint wails and sniffles and rubs his snotty nose against Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian’s clothes are streaked with shit, there’s vomit down his back, and he looks like he’s been crying as well, if his red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks are anything to go by.

 

Bull is faring better, but not by much; he, at least, isn’t wearing expensive clothes. His broad chest is covered in white spit-up, and he’s staring down helplessly at the squalling infant nestled in the crook of his arm, lifting it upright in alarm when it starts to choke again so it can spit up all over him, then settling it back down, where it resumes its crying.

 

“Holy  _fuck_ ,” Evelyn says. Dorian whirls around—then swears loudly in Tevene, because he moved too quickly and Lil ‘Vint shrieks and starts vomiting again.

 

“Oh,  _Maker_ ,” Dorian moans, and his eyes well up with tears. “Evie, what do we  _do_?!”

 

The Inquisitor sighs. She almost wishes she could just go back to fighting Corypheus.

 

* * *

 

 

Dorian hasn’t slept more than two hours at a time in—by his count—twelve days.

 

They can only sleep when the children sleep, and apparently children don’t need sleep. The qunlet sleeps; the Tevinter doesn’t. Not really. He dozes on and off, if they’re very lucky, but usually he just cries. Dorian is sure he’s going to wear a trench in the floorboards, he spends so much time pacing around with the child in his arms, and he sings until his throat is raw, but Lil ‘Vint just doesn’t want to calm down. Usually he just cries and cries until he’s literally too exhausted to continue. And then there’s that blessed two-hour reprieve where he sleeps a bit. Re-energizes, more like, for the next tantrum.

 

And of course his crying sets off the qunlet, and the qunlet’s crying sets off Dorian, and Bull just bears it all with stoic, long-suffering silence, holding crying children and crying husband in his arms while they make a teary, snotty, drooly mess of him.

 

“Look, those two are bad enough,” he says wearily, wiping at Dorian’s kohl-streaked eyes. “Try to hang in there,  _kadan_.”

 

Dorian would like to—he doesn’t  _enjoy_  breaking down and sobbing like a child, even if it is a little cathartic—but he’s just so  _exhausted_ , and exhaustion shortens his fuse almost to the point of non-existence.

 

He’s also pent-up as hell, because when he’s this strung-out and this exhausted, all he really wants is for Bull to fuck him into the mattress and then snuggle him against that broad chest, but it’s not going to happen, not with two children in the room, especially not with two children in the room who  _won’t fucking go to sleep_.

 

He can tell Bull is suffering too—when they’re apart they can croon to one another over communicator crystal, and their own hands are never as satisfying as coming together, but it’s  _something_ at least. But neither is about to leave the other with two wailing children so he can go stroke himself off, so they suffer in aching, pent-up silence. After a few days, they try not to even touch, because after four weeks apart even the brush of shoulders is  _electric_  between them, and as much as Dorian doesn’t enjoy ferrying Lil ‘Vint around the room, he knows he’ll enjoy it even less if he’s battling down an erection.

 

Stitches visits  _just_  long enough to take a look at both of the children. The qunlet seems healthy, though they’re lucky Harding got there when she did. Lil ‘Vint is sick, that much is apparent—he’d been too long without food and water, alternately burning up and freezing in the desert, and his little body is a wreck. All they can do is keeping feeding him, giving him water, keeping him bundled and held against their bodies. Stitches shrugs; it’s just going to take time for the little tyke to adjust. Then the medic scuttles out, leaving them feeling, if possible, worse than before.

 

Lil ‘Vint—who needs an actual name, Dorian knows, but he’s too tired to even think about it—shits and vomits and cries for another two days, and they sleep basically not at all. Feeding the qunlet doesn’t turn out to be as big a challenge as they’d feared; Josie brings them milk that the apothecary has supplemented with all kinds of herbs, and the babe suckles happily at the bottle, watching them with big, gentle eyes.

 

“You were once this small,” Dorian says, cradling the infant in his arms while Bull takes a turn carrying Lil ‘Vint around the room.

 

“Doubt it,” Bull grunts, and his husband smiles wearily up at him.

 

“Bull? I love you,  _amatus_. So very much.”

 

Bull smiles and crosses the room, cupping Dorian’s chin in his hand and tipping his face up so he can bend down and kiss him. “Love you, too. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

 

“You’d probably smell a great deal less like baby vomit, for starters.”

 

“Well, yeah. And without me, you’d still have your favorite pair of robes.”

 

Dorian sighs; he’s been in mourning over the shit-covered robes he had to throw out the morning before. “Yes, well. I suppose it’s worth it.”

 

Bull’s eye widens. He remembers—vividly—a time when  _nothing_  was worth losing a good set of robes. He sits down on the bed and pulls Dorian into his side, kissing his temple. Lil ‘Vint whines and squirms, rubbing his belly, lower lip trembling outward.

 

“Give him here,” Dorian says, and they swap little ones. Dorian pulls the child against his chest, pressing a kiss into his curly hair, and rests his palm on Lil ‘Vint’s belly. Bull recognizes the glow of his fire magic, the gentle heat that gathers on Dorian’s fingertips and spreads across his palm. Usually Dorian uses it on Bull’s knee, soothing the old injury where healing magic has failed.

 

Lil ‘Vint’s eyes widen. For a moment, Bull thinks he’s gonna cry—but then the kid  _coos_ , looking up at Dorian and blinking, patting the hand resting over his stomach.

 

“Is that nice?” Dorian smiles, pulls the child a little closer. “Does that feel better?”

 

Lil ‘Vint chirps. It’s the happiest noise he’s made in the two weeks they’ve had him. And then he rests a hand on Dorian’s stomach as well and lays his head across Dorian’s chest. And the smile on Dorian’s face is so beautiful that it nearly breaks Bull’s heart.

 

“What a sweet boy,” Dorian murmurs, resting his cheek on the child’s thick curls. “How kind of you, Felix.”

 

Bull arches his eyebrows. “Felix?”

 

“I—oh.” Dorian lifts his head and blinks. “I didn’t—I’m sorry, Bull, I didn’t even think—”

 

“No. Hey.” Bull takes his hand, brushes his thumb across Dorian’s knuckles. “I think that’s good. He can’t be Lil ‘Vint forever.”

 

“Yes. I suppose not.” Dorian beams, looking down at the child in his lap and smoothing those dark curls back from the little brow. “What do you think, hm? Felix? This is my son, Felix.”

 

“Buhh,” Felix says. He’s still holding onto the hand pressed against his stomach, his eyelids fluttering. He rubs his cheek against Dorian’s shirt and closes his eyes.

 

With all the care of a man who’s just realized he’s stepped on an explosive rune, Dorian pulls his legs onto the bed and maneuvers onto his back, settling Felix in at his side, under his arm. The child stirs, blinks at him a little grumpily, and closes his eyes once more. Bull’s more than a little stunned that something that has been shitting and vomiting all over them for  _days_  can suddenly look so cherubic.

 

“Thank the Maker,” Dorian breathes. He strokes Felix’s hair. “There you go, Felix, sleep for Papa, shh…”

 

Bull lays down and settles the qunlet on his chest. The little one’s been sleeping for hours now, and makes no sign of waking. “This one probably needs a name, too.”

 

“I thought children aren’t named under the Qun.”

 

“Well, he’s not under the Qun.”

 

“Hm.” Dorian reaches for him, traces a thumb along Bull’s jaw, and Koslun’s left testicle, it’s hard not to lean in and kiss him. Bull doesn’t dare try, for fear of upsetting Lil—Felix. “It’s only fair that you name him, I think.”

 

“Yeah? Uh.” Bull shifts, shrugs. “I mean, I’ve got no preference, you can—”

 

“Bull,” Dorian murmurs, gently, and Bull hears the unspoken request in his voice. Yeah, he gets it—this needs to be about both of them.

 

“Whatever I want?”

 

“Within reason.”

 

“What’s within reason?”

 

“Nothing profane, if you please.”

 

“Define profane?”

 

“Bull,” Dorian says again, annoyed now, and his husband chuckles.

 

“Okay. Um. Lemme think.”

 

“Of course. It doesn’t have to be to—”

 

“Ataashi.”

 

Dorian stops, blinks. Sighs. “You’ve clearly given this long and careful consideration, thank you, _amatus_.”

 

“I mean, there’s nothing else I wanna call him.” Bull lifts a hand and trails his fingertips up and down the qunlet’s back. His son. Weird. Qunari don’t have sons, but, well, here he is. A husband and two little kiddos that even  _look_  like them. And Bull can feel their weight behind his chest, as surely as he’s always felt Dorian, from the moment he first looked at Dorian and thought  _Kadan_. “I asked my tama, once. About names. About what a name means. I knew Tal-Vashoth had ‘em. I wanted one, too. She probably shouldn’t have answered me, but she did.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“She said it’s not just something people call you. She said it’s a promise. She said, that when parents outside the Qun name their kids, they’re trying to give them something. What their hopes are for them. If I could give this little guy anything, it’d be—that.”

 

“A dragon?”

 

“Not necessarily a dragon, but…” Bull pauses, looks at the man he’s married. He thinks  _my husband._  And suddenly it hits him—like a punch to the gut.  _Husband._  Not just a silly human word and a silly human concept, but something with structure. A promise. He lifts a hand, wondering, trails his knuckles along the proud line of Dorian’s cheek. A promise. A promise that Dorian is his, as much as he is Dorian’s. He has to swallow away the tightness in his throat before he can speak again. “Not just a dragon, but—the way I  _feel_  when I look at one. Like I’m—limitless. Like there is nothing in this world that is impossible, or undoable, or unknowable. Like we are  _more_  than—this.”

 

He’s lying, a little—it’s not just dragons that make him feel that way. It’s Dorian, too. Dorian most of all. But they can’t very well name the kid Dorian, now, can they. So Bull will give him the second best thing.

 

“Ataashi,” Dorian murmurs, tasting the word in his mouth, and fire licks down along the Bull’s spine. Carefully—very carefully—Dorian leans up, keeping Felix cradled in his arm, and he angles his head down so he can kiss Bull. They kiss for what seems a long time, share lips and tongues and the softest hint of teeth before Felix stirs and whines and Dorian eases himself back down.

 

“Ataashi,” Dorian says again, and it’s an agreement this time. “I like it. Felix and little Ashi.” He pauses and wrinkles his nose. “Uh. ‘Ashi’ doesn’t mean something else in Qunlat, does it? I didn’t just nickname our son ‘arsehole’ or anything like that?”

 

“No,” Bull says, chuckling. He touches Dorian’s face again, runs a thumb across those lips. He wants another taste. “Well. It’s not ‘arsehole.’ ‘Ash’ is ‘to seek,’ so ‘Ashi’ is ‘seeking one.’”

 

“Sort of like ‘Ashkaari’?”

 

“Yeah, you’re getting it.”

 

“A name with a double meaning, then.” Dorian smiles and strokes a thumb across the little patch on Ataashi’s head that will someday be a proud horn. Hopefully. “A qunari child raised by a ‘Vint who has two names? The world won’t know what to make of him.”

 

“Hey, what’s one more Pavus pariah?”

 

“Heh. Truer words…”

 

* * *

 

“Holy shit. It’s true.”

 

Dorian scowls, glancing up from spooning porridge into Felix’s mouth, to glare at the dwarf goggling at him. “Hello to you too, Varric. How nice to see you again.”

 

“Yeah. Shit, Sparkler. You look good. And you’ve got a  _kid_.”

 

“Two, actually,” Bull says, leaning down so Varric can see the qunlet cradled in his arm.

 

Varric hoots with laughter, has to hold the table to hold himself upright, and Dorian keeps scowling at him until the dwarf straightens, wiping tears from his eyes. “Woo! Sorry, guys. I mean, it’s  _great_. You guys having kids? I think that’s great. It’s just—who’d have thought it?”

 

“Certainly not us, but, well, here we are,” Dorian snips, giving Felix a squeeze.

 

“Well? Come on, introduce me.”

 

“Fine,” Dorian says peevishly, and turns in his seat so Felix can blink his big eyes at the dwarf hovering in his face. “Felix, this is our friend, Varric. Varric, our son.”

 

“How d’you do, Magister?” Varric asks, offering Felix a hand, and Dorian groans. “Who’s the little one?”

 

“Ataashi,” Bull says proudly, puffing up his chest, and Varric rubs an appraising hand over the qunlet’s nubs.

 

“Cute. Should I even ask where these little guys came from?”

 

“A Venatori splinter cult and a dead qunari refugee.”

 

“Shit.” Varric’s face softens, and he ruffles Felix’s curls. “Well, it’s all behind you. You’re safe now, fella. These guys will take good care of you.”

 

Maybe it’s just because he’s so tired, or maybe it’s the way Felix giggles and kicks his little feet at the dwarf’s unexpectedly gentle attentions, but Dorian has to duck his head to hide his watering eyes before Varric can see and poke fun of him for that, too.

 

* * *

 

They fall into a routine. Not a bad thing, that. Routine. There’s a comfort to it, from knowing that, sure, the unexpected will still happen, but the unexpected will not be evil undead magisters or fucking archdemons that crawl from the Fade and burn down a village. The unexpected accounts for soiled nappies and the occasional bit of spit-up or a little tantrum and not much else. And it’s good.

 

They get up in the morning, as soon as they hear Felix start to chirp or Ashi start to whimper. Eventually they shouldn’t be beholden to their kids’ every waking need, but they’re  _little_ , Bull insists, and Dorian gives. So no matter whether the sun is up, they’re up when the kids are up. They mix up who takes care of whom, because they don’t want either kid attaching too strongly to one of them over the other—not really knowing whether that’s even a  _thing_ , as Bull puts it, slightly exasperated, but Dorian’s already dreading the day when Ashi looks at him and calls him a ‘Vint, even though there’s absolutely no good reason for their son to grow up prejudiced thus.

 

Bull makes note of this and makes a conscious effort to amend his own vocabulary. It’s time that little nickname died out. Dorian is just Dorian, and has been for a long time.

 

They get up. They pick up little beings that have no business being that tiny and that cute and they coo and praise and make all those weird comments that nauseatingly proud parents make—“ _Amatus_ , look, he’s about to—oh, never mind. Just vomit. I thought he might speak.” “Hey,  _kadan_ , think Ash’ll be taller than me? Bet he’ll be taller than me.”—and change nappies and put on fresh sets of clothes, still mostly improvised, though they know Josephine has long since put in the requisition for all the tiny stuff that still freaks Bull out a little.

 

And just like that, four weeks have gone by. Bull lays awake, somehow before the kids start their usual noise, his husband still zonked out on his chest, drooling lightly all over his sternum. Bull smiles, running his fingertips up and down Dorian’s back, mapping his spine for the hundred thousandth time. Thinks for the hundred thousandth time what a lucky son of a bitch he is, to be lying here under a patched roof with two sleeping kiddos and the man he loves draped over his body like an overgrown cat.

 

Dorian stirs. Moves enough to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand and then snuggles back in with a soft sigh. Bull squeezes an arm around his waist and presses his mouth into Dorian’s hair. Doesn’t do more than grunt softly when that hand slips beneath the blankets and into his smallclothes.

 

“Oh,” Dorian breathes, and it hits Bull like a fist to the gut that they haven’t been  _together_  in six weeks. Dorian’s hand feels so good he could almost  _sing_. “Bull…”

 

“Yeah,” Bull huffs into his hair, and grasps Dorian by the thigh, dragging him onto his hips. “Mm.  _Kadan_. Quietly, though.”

 

Dorian leans down to kiss him, all kinds of hunger on his tongue, and Bull grips him tightly by the hips before sliding his hands down to the ass he’s been missing so much. It doesn’t take much after so long apart; they stroke and squeeze and rock together and finish all over one another’s long-neglected bodies, and the way Dorian smiles at him throughout is enough to make Bull’s heart stop.

 

“I love you,” Dorian says, smoothing a hand down between Bull’s pectorals, fingertips coming to a halt over his dragon’s tooth.

 

Bull mirrors the touch on the expanse of Dorian’s chest, smiling at the way his hand nearly spans his husband’s entire torso when he stretches his fingers. “Love you,  _kadan_.” He moves his hand up to cup behind Dorian’s neck and tug him down, kissing him gently, enjoying the softness of his lips and the tickle of his moustache.

 

Dorian cleans them off with a lazy twirl of his fingers. He’s got all kinds of great spellwork that makes things easier in the bedroom. And for cleaning up baby puke. “What do you want to be?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“What do you want the little ones to call you?”

 

“Oh.” Bull stops, thinks. “You’re gonna be Papa, huh.”

 

“Do you think that’s—alright?”

 

“What? Oh, yeah. It’s cute.” Bull grins and cups his chin. “You’re cute.”

 

Dorian beams, a pretty little blush on his cheeks, and bends down to steal another sweet kiss. Bull obliges him, happily, loves the way Dorian moves against him as they press together and come apart, loves the soft, chaste sounds of Dorian’s lips on his, loves his husband’s quiet, contented hum when Bull runs a hand though his sleep-mussed hair.

 

“Hey,” he says suddenly, inspired. “Think I could just be Tama?”

 

A quirked brow. “Aren’t tamassrans usually women?”

 

“Always. Yeah.”

 

Dorian smiles and strokes his fingertip down Bull’s nose. “Oh, well. Too late to worry about social convention, I suppose. Papa and Tama. Aren’t we a pair.”

 

A pair. Bull grins and surges up, wraps Dorian up in his arms and holds him tightly to his chest while Dorian laughs and bats at him playfully. Him and his husband. His husband, Dorian Pavus, in his bed, his room— _their_  bed,  _their_  room— their lil Tevinter and their little qunlet sleeping peacefully nearby, Skyhold quiet, not a demon in sight.

 

It’s good. 

 

* * *

 

  **Generously (and gorgeously!) illustrated by[~lonicera-caprifolium](http://lonicera-caprifolium.tumblr.com)!**

* * *

 

 

 


	2. Tama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the angst and for my inconsistent formatting of Qunlat words.

“Ashi—Ashi, _stop!_ ” Felix huffs, blowing his curls out his eyes, which are beginning to water. “Ashi, _no!_ ”

 

Ataashi sticks his tongue out, holding his prize high over his head, and cackles when Felix pushes on him uselessly. Qunari grow fast and strong; even a year younger, he’s already taller than his brother, and substantially sturdier. Still pipsqueak-sized, but he’ll be a bull of his own once he’s grown.

 

“ _Ashi_ ,” Felix whines—and then the corner of the rug catches on fire.

 

“Whoa,” the Iron Bull says, scooping the little tyke up under his arm and stamping on the smoldering flames. “Whoa, _whoa!_ Easy there, kiddo—whichever of you just—hey, imekari, give that back to your brother.”

 

Ataashi scowls, holding the dragon carving tightly against his chest. “No.”

 

Bull raises his eyebrow, setting Felix back on his feet now that the threat of immolation has passed, and crouches down on his good knee, holding his hand out. “Kiddo.”

 

“Ta- _aam_ ,” Ashi whines, clutching the dragon closer yet, and his lower lip begins to tremble. “Tama, but it’s _me_.”

 

Bull’s heart damn near breaks at that. He sighs and looks down at Felix, who is glaring daggers at his brother. Blood they’re not, but Felix definitely has his papa’s stink eye. Maybe it’s a ‘Vint thing—or maybe he’s just learning. “Hey, imekari. Can we share? Huh? Can Ataashi play with that for a while?”

 

“No,” Felix whines, kicking his little feet. He’s three and pretty decent at the whole talking thing, but he still likes “no” best. And he’s taught his brother. Which is just great.

 

“Hey,” Bull says, gently, prodding Felix’s head with one finger, and the child huffs. “You’re the bigger one, remember? Can you teach Ashi how to share?”

 

Felix glowers a moment longer, just to get it out of his system. Bull keeps a wary eye on the carpet. Eventually the little tyke sighs, long-suffering, and nods.

 

“Yes, Tama.”

 

Bull beams and kisses those sweet little curls three times—one for each year he’s been blessed with this tiny monster. “Thanks, little man. Makes my life a shit-ton easier.”

 

“Bull, _language_.”

 

The Tal-Vashoth grins and gets to his feet, turning to see his stupidly handsome husband leaning in the doorway, arms folded over his broad chest and one imperious eyebrow arched. “Dorian.”

 

He goes to take a step forward, arms spread, because it’s been a week since they’ve seen one another and he’s been missing this man like hell, but something zips by his legs and he freezes on instinct, still petrified that one of these days, one of their kids might go squish beneath a big lumbering qunari foot. Dorian drops to one knee and catches his son, laughing, while Felix squeals happily and kicks his feet.

 

“Papa! Papa! Papa’s home!”

 

“Yes, I am.” Dorian rubs his nose against the child’s, and Felix giggles at the tickle of his mustache. “I missed you, imekari. Where’s your brother?”

 

“Here I am,” Ataashi announces, still wobbly on his feet, holding onto Bull’s calf.

 

Dorian bends and extends an arm, and Ataashi hurries into it. Bull watches, heart stupidly swollen, while his husband straightens, arms full of giggling imekari, and kisses their faces and heads and grabbing hands while he carries them over to the bed. He drops them on the mattress and they bounce, squealing their delight, scrambling up and demanding to be bounced again.

 

“Hold off, there,” Bull chastises, no heat to it, and it’s his turn to get his arms full of someone much missed. Dorian hugs him back fiercely, standing on tiptoe and tugging Bull in for a kiss, and the feel of those plush lips beneath his has Bull’s blood singing.

 

“Bull,” Dorian sighs, smiling, letting his husband trail kisses from his mouth to his nose and his brow. “I missed you terribly, amatus.”

 

“Yeah. Missed you, too. We got lonely, didn’t we, fellas? Is Tama any good at lullabies?”

 

“No,” Ashi says, face solemn, and Dorian laughs, resting his head against Bull’s chest.

 

“I’ll let Evie know that my duties here are not to be missed,” he says seriously, and Bull smiles into his hair.

 

They have dinner in their quarters—and they have _quarters_ now. Their old room with their patched roof was definitely not big enough for a family of four, especially with the boys growing the way they are, and so Josephine snapped her magic fingers and had gotten an addition built onto the Herald’s Rest. It’s a little weird, to not be right above the noise and chatter of the tavern anymore, but it’s good to have space, to be able to put the kids to sleep and then go into a separate room and take time for themselves. It’s nice to have a kitchen and a table where they can all sit down, to have room for a chest full to brimming with toys, to have an extra bookshelf with books that the boys love to have read to them while sitting on their papa’s lap.

 

Bull whips up a thick stew—he’s gotten pretty good in the kitchen—and they settle in around the table. The boys are only quiet when there’s food in front of them, and Bull takes advantage of the brief respite to focus entirely on Dorian, watching his husband eat, clasping their hands and rubbing Dorian’s knuckles with one calloused thumb (though the callouses are lessening, these days).

 

“How was it?”

 

Dorian shrugs, helping himself to a second serving from the large pot in the center of the table. He pauses to help Felix arrange a cloth napkin in his lap—not so much because it’s good manners, but because there’s only so much time a guy wants to spend wiping potato and beef off the floor.

 

“Uneventful, mostly. It turned out to be a false report.”

 

Bull grunts, lifts an eyebrow. Ataashi is banging his spoon on the tabletop, and stops when he realizes his tama is watching. “Someone falsely reported a Venatori sighting?”

 

“They saw a Tevinter, actually, and assumed they were Venatori,” Dorian says, more than a little peevishly. “It was a draconologist. She was hoping to chart a high dragon’s migration toward the Emprise and had been asking around the local villages about possible nesting grounds.”

 

Bull sighs. “Some idiot’s blatant racism is what took you away for an entire week?”

 

Dorian flashes him a cheeky smile. “You were once a proponent of that blatant racism, my dear.”

 

“So were you, babe.”

 

“True enough.” And Dorian gives his hand a squeeze, smile teasing, eyes full of love. Damn, but they’ve come a long way, Bull thinks, from snide comments about how they’re going to kill one another. “I’ll tell Evelyn that I’m not necessarily interested in investigating _every_ allegation of Venatori activity.”

 

“Yeah?” Bull frowns, lifts a hand to wipe at some stew clinging to Dorian’s mustache. He brings his thumb to his mouth. “You’ve been pretty dedicated to wiping them out. You gonna be okay just sitting on the sidelines?”

 

“Yes,” Dorian says, and looks at the boys, who are surreptitiously throwing bits of potato at one another. The smile that perks his lips is so soft, Bull can feel its texture against his very core. “I have more important matters to attend.”

 

Bull reaches for him, wraps a hand around his shoulders, pulls him close and kisses him. “Let’s leave you-know-who and you-know-who-else with Ev and Cullen tonight.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yeah.” Bull presses their cheeks together and nips at Dorian’s ear, on the side the kids won’t see. Tama’s just telling Papa a secret. “I’ve got a matter for you to attend—”

 

“Please don’t.”

 

“—in my pants.”

 

Dorian groans. His doubtlessly exasperated retort is cut off by a wail; Ataashi has clocked Felix in the head with the contested dragon carving. Bull puts his seduction on hold long enough to do damage control.

 

* * *

 

 They kiss fiercely when it’s just them, Dorian wriggling out of his clothes before Bull can so much as reach for the buckles, and they’re both smiling as they topple into the bed together. Their ropes and gags and blindfolds and hot wax and riding crops and about a half dozen other deliciously sordid items are stashed under the bed, in a box locked both magically and physically—because once they found Felix running around and playing with one of their larger and obscener dildos, and Bull laughed so hard he cried while Dorian just straight-up cried—but Bull’s not feeling it tonight. Nah. Tonight he just wants Dorian, who is smiling and laughing with him, gracing him with sweet kisses and tender touches. It’s been a while, actually, since they did anything more involved than Dorian’s hands tied to the headboard. Not that they don’t still love it, getting into it, building a scene, playing with the push and the pull, the delicious dynamic of power they can build between them, but… but they find themselves craving, more and more, the simple pleasure of having one much beloved held so close.

 

“Love you,” Bull murmurs, against Dorian’s kiss-warmed lips. “I want you, baby.”

 

“Oh.” Dorian hums and arches his hips, tilting his head to the side, inviting. “More.”

 

“Baby,” Bull croons, lowers his mouth to the side of Dorian’s neck and suckling a pretty bruise into his skin. Dorian gasps and grinds against him, eyelashes fluttering. “I want my pretty mage. My own one, my kadan.” He grins, trails kisses down Dorian’s neck, runs his tongue along the proud arch of a magnificent clavicle. “My highly esteemed husband, Dorian Pavus.”

 

And that gets a laugh, Dorian’s legs shifting open, and Bull settles in between them. Like coming home.

 

* * *

 

 Their kids are trilingual, or will be, once they get past three-word phrases and “no.” That’s a thrill, and a source of fierce pride, and also kind of a huge pain, because sometimes Ataashi will be babbling in Qunlat and suddenly he’ll make the switch to Tevene, and Bull will just sit and stare while even his quick mind shifts gears. It’s great watching the others in Skyhold try to keep up. The kids are learning—more slowly than they’re learning languages—that it’s best to use Common with anyone but Papa and Tam.

 

They’re quick, too—shit, their kids are fucking _smart_ , and Bull puffs up with pride just thinking it. They’re also fucking _sponges_ , and they soak up all kinds of shit that maybe they don’t necessarily need. Like Qunlat words that Bull used in bed while he was running his mouth all over the heat between Dorian’s legs, words that translate to some pretty explicit (but complimentary) descriptors for genitalia. Bull wishes he could fall through the floor when Dorian turns to him, wide-eyed and furious, as Ataashi starts babbling about pretty little holes.

 

“Not my fault if they can hear through the walls,” Bull defends. They try to keep the sex quiet after that. Evie and Cullen see a lot more of the boys.

 

Sometimes, while he and Dorian sit in their chairs and read—or, in Bull’s case, quilts, because he’s found he very much enjoys the tactile arts—he puts down his needles and just lets himself be amused and awed by a little Tevinter and a little qunari having a conversation in a perfect blend of both of their native tongues. He’ll glance up and see Dorian watching them, too, see the tears in Dorian’s eyes.

 

“Don’t get me wrong,” Dorian says one night, in bed, resting against Bull’s shoulder and trailing his fingertips over the swell of his husband’s belly, “I love having them all to ourselves. But I wish—I wish some select morons back in Tevinter could see what happens when we make a conscious effort to coexist.”

 

Bull grunts, smoothing his hand over the cropped hair at Dorian’s nape. “Yeah. Coexistence is a breeze if you’re willing to disavow everything you’ve ever known.”

 

He feels Dorian’s smile against his skin, and they don’t speak on it further. They’re not about to share their kids with the world beyond Skyhold.

 

Not yet.

 

* * *

 

One or both of the boys is a mage.

 

It’s hard to tell who, so far—like with the rug thing, so far the only indicator is the weird, random little bursts of magic that have become pretty much commonplace. Bull is getting very good at responding quickly to fires. It only happens when one of the munchkins is upset, which, Dorian assures him, is how it generally starts.

 

“It’s very emotionally oriented, at first,” he explains, while he casually strips out of the robes that one of their little sobbing bundles of joy has just set on fire. “Control comes later, with maturity.”

 

“Does it?” Bull quips, waggling an eyebrow. He’s thinking, of course, about the curtains. Dorian smacks his chest on his way back out into the living room, to deal with their warring children.

 

It’s hard to tell which kiddo is casting the magic, because they’re always together. Bull figures they could test it, but that would mean provoking each child until one of them made a magical response, and he and Dorian sure as hell aren’t going to go out of their way to upset their kids, not when the second (or third) mage in the family will be revealed with time.

 

But then it happens.

 

Bull is roused from deep, comfortable slumber by whimpering. He lays awake, every nerve jangling, senses honing in, picking up the softest disturbances. Dorian shifts and cuddles into him a little more tightly. Bull nudges him awake.

 

“Mmn. Amatus… what’s…”

 

“One of the kids,” Bull says, and at that moment, one of their sons starts to shriek.

 

Dorian sits up, scrambling to get out of bed, legs tangling in the sheets, and Bull is already out of the bedroom, throwing open the door to the kids’ room. Felix is sitting up, just on the verge of beginning to cry, and his eyes are wide and scared but he seems alright. It’s Ataashi who’s flailing, who’s kicked off all of his blankets and his holding his head and _screaming_ like he’s being fucking _tortured_ , and Bull wants to scream himself as he scoops his little son into his arms and holds him close.

 

“Here,” Dorian says sharply, appearing at his side, and Bull passes the little tyke over, helpless, horrified. Dorian cradles Ashi’s head against his shoulder and closes his eyes; Bull feels the prickle along his spine that usually accompanies the strange energy of Dorian’s magic when it connects to the Fade.

 

“Tama,” Felix sniffles, and Bull gets up to sit down instead on his elder son’s bed. He opens his arm and Felix snuggles into him, watching Papa hold Ashi, his dark eyes wide.

 

“S’okay,” Bull murmurs, not knowing what the hell is going on, whether Ataashi really _is_ okay, but that’s what parenting is, he’s realized—bullshitting until one of them comes up with a better plan. “It’s okay, imekari.”

 

After two minutes—awful minutes, the worst two minutes of Bull’s life, worse than all his months on Seheron combined—Ataashi’s screaming starts to deescalate in pitch and volume, and then he’s just sobbing, rubbing his face against Dorian’s chest and squirming, little fists opening and closing in his papa’s shirt.

 

“There,” Dorian murmurs, running a hand up and down the qunlet’s back, but his eyes are still closed, brows furrowed in concentration. “There, imekari, shh, I’ve got you, Papa’s got you, you’re safe. You’re safe now.”

 

You’re safe _now_. Bull’s stomach clenches. Ataashi wasn’t safe before? Upset, yeah, but—oh. Dorian opens his eyes and looks up at him, face pale, and Bull groans, squeezing Felix a little closer.

 

They bring the kids into their room. Felix nods off again almost at once, nestled comfortably against Bull’s chest. Ataashi lays awake, big eyes blinking up at the ceiling, while Dorian holds him close and strokes his little tuft of white hair and croons down at him. Bull recognizes the glow of healing magic on his husband’s fingertips, wonders what it is that’s being healed.

 

Ataashi falls asleep after an hour, maybe closer to two, one tiny fist wrapped around Dorian’s finger. Bull leans down and kisses his slumbering son’s head, right between his nubs, and Dorian reaches for him, cups Bull’s face in his hand.

 

“Him, then?” Bull says, his voice breaking when Dorian nods.

 

“He was in the Fade.”

 

Bull keens quietly, everything clenching up inside, fear chewing at him. Dorian hushes him and pulls him close, peppering his face with kisses.

 

“Did a—did one of those things—”

 

“He was being taunted by a demon, yes.”

 

“Fuck. _Fuck_ , Dorian.”

 

“Every mage child walks the Fade,” Dorian says, and he’s shaking a little, but his voice is steady. “That’s just how it is, my love. He’ll be alright. I’ll start putting up wards. There are amulets that will help protect him. When he’s old enough, I’ll teach him to resist. There are spells to minimize his dreaming—”

 

“What if he gets possessed anyway? Dorian? What if—”

 

“Stop,” Dorian murmurs, cupping his chin, makes Bull look at him. “Demons don’t have an interest in possessing mages who still toddle. They will taunt and terrorize because they are cruel by nature, but nothing is going to try and jump into Ashi’s body.”

 

“But _what if_ —”

 

“Bull. We’ll be paralyzed if we ask too many _what if_ s.”

 

Yeah. Yeah, that’s true. Bull huffs out a breath, rolls his shoulders. His kids are asleep between him and their papa, Ataashi resting easy now. Felix snores a little. They’re okay, right now. They’re all okay.

 

“Yeah. You’re right. Sorry.”

 

“I’ll protect him,” Dorian says, fiercely, and Bull kisses him hard. Wishes he could be the one protecting. But he can’t reach into the Fade with a battleaxe. This one is all Dorian.

 

* * *

 

Their qunari child is a mage, and their Tevinter child isn’t. They both sigh at the irony and soldier on. Bull realizes that under the Qun, his kid is saarebas. Under the Qun, his other kid is bas _._ Under the Qun, they wouldn’t be his kids at all, and Dorian would be a dead ‘Vint, bas-saarebas _,_ on the end of his axe. Bull tries not to think about the Qun anymore.

 

Dorian doesn’t try to explain the Fade and magic and demons to their son yet. Ataashi is visibly shaken, quiet and withdrawn for several days after his nightmare. Dorian holds him more than usual, rocks him, sings to him even when it’s not bedtime. Felix recovers quicker, back to himself the next day. But he’s not the one who had a demon in his head.

 

Josie is quick in finding them a warding amulet. Dorian puts it around Ataashi’s neck, looks at it laying against his son’s chest, and cries for a while, holding Ashi as tightly as he dares. He puts up wards in the kids’ room. He puts wards all around the house. Bull watches him drawing the glyphs, fingertips moving in soft harmony with the kinder aspects of the Fade.

 

“He has a gift,” Dorian says, sighing as he places a final ward on their door. It glows in midair and then fades. Still there, Dorian assures him. “It only feels like a curse because he’s so young.”

 

Bull thinks, for one wild moment, that maybe they should just make Ataashi Tranquil, at least until he’s older, and they can just have Cassandra reverse it—then he thinks about the scars on Ashi’s dead ma’s mouth, and how cute Ataashi is when he’s being tickled and giggling wildly, and hates himself. Dorian steps into his arms and they hold one another tightly.

 

* * *

 

In the four years since Corypheus fell, Skyhold has filled up nicely. Lots of folks are interested in keeping Thedas safe. Evelyn gets pretty well embroiled in politics, guided by Josephine at every step. She and Cullen have a kid, a sweet little girl who looks just like her pops. They call her Stroud. Everyone in Skyhold calls her Pipsqueak, then just Pip. Or Squeakers. Pip Squeakers Stroud Rutherford Trevelyan.

 

Bull takes the kids for walks around Skyhold when the weather is nice, Pip on his shoulders, holding onto his horns, Ashi and Felix clutching either hand. Sometimes Dorian comes along, carries Pip on his hip when she gets tired of holding onto Bull’s horns. She’s even smaller than Ashi. Sometimes Bull thinks back to that snowy day at the base of the mountain, noting the swell of Evie’s belly, Harding handing him a tiny bundle of newborn qunari, and his head spins.

 

The peace and quiet have been good for everyone. Sera’s finally gotten tired of running all over Thedas getting into mischief; she and Dagna, the perfect weirdos, are cohabitating, a fact that never ceases to make Dorian giggle wildly. But they seem good. Skinner still has loud, profane sex with her definitely-not-a-mage girlfriend. Krem and Maryden have been together half a year, and Bull’s lieutenant walks around (hobbles, some days, apparently Mar is a real tiger) with a stupid grin on his face all the damn time. Harding and Josie are taking a stab at dating, are probably the sweetest couple in Skyhold, and _that_ never ceases to make Dorian grumpy, that he and Bull have been ousted.

 

“Sorry, babe, we’re just boring and married now,” Bull tells him, smiling, and Dorian huffs.

 

Cassandra comes around sometimes, though she’s busy with the new Seekers. Felix absolutely adores her. Varric comes up for a few months at a time; he’s keeping himself busy in Kirkwall. At some point he starts wearing a wedding ring. Wherever Bianca is, she’s probably got the mate. Bull and Dorian don’t tease him about it. Blackwall, who has stoically refused to leave Skyhold, pledged to the Inquisitor, takes up with a cute elf serving girl, seems enamored with her. Cole sticks around—adventures out, sometimes, to learn more about being human. But he seems to like being around the munchkins, and they seem to like him.

 

Vivenne—who had been occupying herself with the Game, with establishing and reforming the southern Circles—sweeps in one day and announces that she intends to return and live in Skyhold. Evelyn, surprised but pleased, tells her of course. Dorian is somewhere between delighted and absolutely ecstatic; the kids fall head over heels for Auntie Viv. Bull always knew she’d make a great tama.

 

Her return gets him thinking. He pens a letter. Two months later, he gets a reply.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t know how to tell Dorian. He almost doesn’t believe it himself; he has to read the letter six times before it sinks in. He knows it’ll be great, but shit, it’s a lot to take in.

 

He winds up telling Dorian at the wrong time. During sex. Which is the wrong time to tell anyone anything beyond how good they look, and Dorian does look good, rocking on top of Bull’s hips and moaning, head thrown back, cock slipping in and out of Bull’s fist. He’s just tightening up, ready to climax, when Bull clears his throat.

 

“So. Uh. My tama is gonna come to Skyhold.”

 

Dorian looks down at him. He loses his erection. Not a surprise, that.

 

* * *

 

 “Relax, babe.”

 

“No,” Dorian says flatly, shifting Ataashi in his arms. “I will not relax. I suppose you have no way of knowing this, but meeting one’s in-laws is a _big deal_ , the Iron Bull.”

 

Bull winces. Full name, huh. Kadan is pissed. “I mean, she’s gonna love you.”

 

“I’m a ‘Vint,” Dorian snaps.

 

“Yeah, and I’m Tal-Vashoth. But she’s still coming. I told her all about you, Dorian. She knows who you are, where you come from, and she knows why I got booted from the Qun, she knows about the kids, and she’s coming anyway.”

 

They’ve had this conversation a few times now, and Dorian still doesn’t seem to believe it. He sighs, snugging the blanket a little tighter around his sleeping son. It’s late, but scouts have already reported a caravan with a few qunari (Qunari? They’re not sure) heading up the mountain. Bull told Dorian he didn’t have to wait up, and Dorian glared at him until Bull backed down. Sure, babe. Let’s bundle up the kids.

 

Felix yawns and rubs his eyes. He’s on his tama’s shoulders, lounging across Bull’s horns, arms hanging in Tama’s face. Bull grasps a tiny hand and gives it a kiss. Felix pulls it away with an affronted grunt.

 

“Tell me about her again,” Dorian says, visibly uneasy, but he drops a hand to take Bull’s.

 

Bull squeezes his fingers. “You can just call her Tama. She doesn’t have another name. She’s aqun-athlok. And she’s going to _love_ you.”

 

“Gotta say, Chief, I’m excited as hell,” Krem says, joining them, offering Dorian a grin. “Altus. Fellow soporati,” he adds, and Felix waves a little hand.

 

Bull snorts. “You here to be as ‘Vinty as possible?”

 

“Nah. Just want to meet the woman who whipped you into shape.” Krem takes Felix when the child reaches for him, hands making grabby motions, and gives him a squeeze. “Whatcha say, little man? Ready to meet your gram?”

 

“No,” Felix says, with no real conviction, and goes on to snooze lightly on Krem’s shoulder.

 

It’s warm, but Dorian’s teeth chatter anyway. Nerves, probably, Bull thinks. He takes Ashi and pulls Dorian in against his side, leaning down to kiss his sweet-smelling hair. “Hey. You using some kinda new oil? You smell great.”

 

“Please don’t distract me from the fact that I’m absolutely furious with you. And yes.”

 

Bull presses closer, sniffs again, and Dorian groans. “Holy shit, kadan—does it have dragon’s blood in it?”

 

“Maybe just a touch,” Dorian mumbles, quietly enough that Krem won’t hear, but Bull’s pretty sure his loud laughter gives them away.

 

Maybe fifteen minutes later, they hear noise by the gates, and Dorian tenses. The guards call to one another, the gates creak open. Awakened, Felix squirms, and Krem sets him down, but makes sure to hold his hand to keep him from sprinting off. Felix holds on obligingly, sticking his free thumb in his mouth, watching the approaching carriage with obvious interest.

 

Bull’s heart clenches up, and for the first time in years, it’s not over Dorian. His husband nudges him, gentle, and takes Ashi so Bull can meet the carriage. His steps feel so slow. He’s only closed half the distance when the carriage opens, and she steps out—exactly as he remembered her, tall and willowy, body all firm, sweeping lines, her white hair braided down to the small of her waist, horns swept straight back, capped in steel.

 

Bull freezes. Tama, smoothing her hands along her skirt, turns, looks around. Sees him, and she _smiles_ , and Bull thinks he might fall over.

 

“Imekari,” she says, beaming, and he sprints to meet her.

 

* * *

 

The Iron Bull’s tama speaks in this low, humming alto that is nothing short of entrancing. Bull makes her some fresh stew and while she eats, she talks, and he sits there soaking it all in. Dorian does, too, cradling Ashi on his lap; Felix has proclaimed himself “ _Tired_ , Tam,” and toddled off to bed. Ataashi—bless his poor little heart—doesn’t sleep well these days unless he’s held until he can drift off. He sits with his head on Dorian’s shoulder, big eyes blinking sleepily, transfixed by the little fire wisp Dorian has conjured for him. The wisps make him feel better.

 

“Dorian,” Tama says, and he jumps, squeezing Ataashi closer on instinct. He wonders only vaguely when he acquired parental instincts. The woman who raised his husband is watching him, looking at his son, frowning a little. “Is your imekari well?”

 

“Oh. Yes. Um.” Dorian strokes a hand over Ashi’s little shock of white hair. “He—had a rather frightening encounter in the Fade, recently.”

 

“In the Fade.” Tama, still frowning, looks at Bull. He shrugs.

 

“Kid’s a mage.”

 

Tama looks back at Dorian. “Witches under the Qun are known to make spellbags that repel demons. Would you like me to have some made?”  


Dorian blinks at her. “I—do they work?” He’s fairly confident in his wards, and the moment Ashi seems ready, he’ll teach the poor thing to fight the demons on his own, but he’ll take all the help he can get in the meantime.

 

“They help the saarebas, at least. I’ve used them for imekari, before they were…” She pauses, winces.

 

Right. Dorian knows what happens to mage children under the Qun. “Yes, thank you. I would appreciate that immensely.”

 

She smiles for him, nods, turns back to Bull, who engages her like a little mabari, beaming and happy. Dorian settles back in his seat, kissing the top of Ashi’s head. He doesn’t know what to make of this—any of this. Not this woman, who doesn’t look at his child like shit she’s just scraped off her shoe, the way most Qunari look at mages—who hasn’t used the word ‘Vint, or been outwardly cruel to him, or even remotely unkind—and not _Bull_ , Bull like this, like he’s just a little qunlet himself and this woman is the center of his universe.

 

Dorian feels a pang. He’s been the center of Bull’s universe for some time, now.

 

He feels a heaviness on his shoulder and looks down; Ashi has finally nodded off, a thumb hanging out of his mouth. Dorian kisses his hair once more and gets to his feet.

 

“He out?” Bull asks, and stands as well, stepping around the table to grasp Dorian’s arm.

 

“Yes. I’ll go put him down.”

 

“I can—”

 

“Nonsense. I won’t be but a moment. Stay, enjoy yourself.”

 

Bull smiles and leans down to kiss Dorian’s cheek. “Thanks, love.” He strokes Ashi’s slumbering head—“Night, kiddo”— and returns to the table.

 

Dorian welcomes the respite of the boys’ room. He tucks Ataashi in, tracing a finger over the glyphs he’s sewn into the quilt Bull made for the little tyke, and the blanket heats slowly. Ashi sighs and settles in. Dorian lingers, snugs the blankets a little more tightly around Felix as well, hovers and strokes his son’s dark curls. He wants to hold them, both of them, while they’re still this sweet and small. There will be tomorrow, however, and he lets them sleep.

 

He steps back into the kitchen to find Tama and the Bull laughing, both bent over the table, wiping tears from their eyes. Her hand on his arm. Dorian remembers, for one wild moment, that tamassrans are in charge of sex, and chastises himself. Obviously they don’t have sex with their own imekari. Though, now that he thinks about it, propaganda in Tevinter had suggested otherwise. Did he ever mention that to Bull? Or did he just dismiss it for the nonsense it was?

 

“Hey,” Bull says, snapping him from his reverie and pushing out a chair beside him. “Come sit, kadan.”

 

“Oh. No, I—I’m quite tired. I think I’ll turn in.” Dorian steps over to him and leans down, meaning to kiss his cheek, but Bull turns his head and catches him on the mouth. There’s a touch more intent in that kiss than Dorian is comfortable receiving in front of Tama, and he withdraws quickly. “Good night, both of you.”

 

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

 

“Take your time,” Dorian says, stroking a hand along Bull’s shoulder. “I’m sure you two have a great deal of catching up to do.”

 

“Yeah, true,” Bull chuckles, and he and Tama exchange broad grins.

 

“Goodnight, Dorian,” she says warmly, smiling, and he dips his head politely before hurrying into his and Bull’s bedroom.

 

For some reason—for some stupid, fucking _awful_ reason—he thinks he hates her.

* * *

 

 

“So?”

 

Bull smiles, taking a swig of his ale. “So.”

 

“Tell me how it happened, Ashkaari.”

 

Bull chuckles, adjusting in his seat, stretching out his bum knee with a wince. Should have had Dorian spend a little more time on it that morning. “Honestly, I dunno. We flirted a lot—okay, I flirted, and he got pissy with me. And then we fucked—sorry, Tama—and then we did it again, and then he was staying with me, and then I… I dunno. Fell for him, I guess. Fell damn hard.”

 

“You intend for this to be permanent?”

 

“I married him,” Bull says, shrugging. “We’ve got kids. He’s my kadan.” Tama looks at him, arches an eyebrow. Bull smiles. “And I’m stupid in love with him, Tama.”

 

She sighs, sitting back in her chair, but she’s smiling. “He’s a sweet man, imekari.”

 

“Yeah. Best man I ever met. Well, besides Krem. Oh! You gotta meet Krem tomorrow. He’s never met anyone else who’s aqun-athlok before. Bet he’ll be real happy.”

 

“I’d be delighted.”

 

Bull beams and leans across the table to take her hand. “I’m happy you’re here, Tama. Don’t get me wrong. But _why_ are you here?”

 

She looks at him for a moment, eyes searching, and Bull squirms just like he used to when he was a kid. If she weren’t such a good tama, she’d have been damn fine Ben-Hassrath. At length, she raises and lowers one shoulder. “I’m Tal-Vashoth now.”

 

Bull stares. “ _What?”_

 

Tama sits in silence a little while longer, staring at the table. Bull gets up and makes tea, because he doesn’t know what else to do. There’s something else in the room, something deep and painful; he can feel it aching in the back of his throat. He sits again and gives her the mug, and she takes it wordlessly.

 

“Was it…” He stops, restarts. “They didn’t kick you out because of…?”

 

“You? Oh, imekari. No.” She pats his hand, and he turns it over to clasp hers. “Imekari—Bull. I knew, a long, long time ago, that you would leave the Qun.”

 

Bull’s stomach drops into his feet. “You—what?”

 

“Because you cared,” she says, and tightens her grip on his hand when he tries to pull away. “Shh, Ashkaari. Because you _loved_. Because you could give of yourself, so freely, so openly. The Qun was convenient for you. It let you devote yourself whole-heartedly. But of course there would eventually be a _person_ worthy of you. Eventually, I knew, someone would want to give to you as much as you give to them.”

 

Bull lowers his head. Swallows thickly. Thinks of Dorian, how much and how deeply Dorian loves him, the way Dorian looks at him, holds him, kisses him. The way Dorian has sunk into his bones and settled in behind his ribs, pumping blood through his body, keeping him alive. The way Dorian held him that day on the Storm Coast, while the Chargers reveled at what seemed a close call and the dreadnought sank, the way Dorian had felt so sturdy and so constant while everything else shook to pieces, so warm and solid while the rain came down, wet and sharp.

 

“I love you, Bull,” Dorian had murmured then, for the very first time, voice breaking. “Amatus. I’ll always love you.”

 

The Qun was ‘sometimes.’ The Qun was ‘usually.’ The Qun was ‘often.’ Dorian is ‘always.’

 

“Yeah,” Bull says, and sucks in a breath. “Yeah. I guess so.” He lifts his head and gives Tama’s hand a squeeze, lets her know he’s okay, and she smiles. “But what happened?”

 

“I had this little imekari.” Tama looks down at her lap. “We called her the Sun. Because she might as well have been. But I couldn’t find her a role.”

 

Bull blinks at that. “You’re kidding.”

 

“No. I tried. I tried everything. I spent more time on that little one than I… than with any other before her. But nothing was right. Nothing fit. She could find no fulfillment, could find no contentment. She despaired. I despaired. Eventually, she…” Tama presses a hand over her eyes, and Bull’s heart tightens. “She tied stones to her feet, waded into the river. Drowned. She left me a letter. Said that she could see no point in—in being someone’s _burden_ —if she could never be ‘right’ under the Qun.”

 

“Tama,” Bull says, voice thick. She sobs, and he draws his chair closer so he can wrap an arm around her. “Tama, you did what you could.”

 

“I know,” she says, fiercely, wiping at her eyes. “I know! I did all that I could have done! All I was meant to do! That child—the Qun made that child feel that her life had no _value_. She was the Sun, and she drowned.” Tama keens, clutching at her chest, and Bull holds her tighter. “That sweet girl. Dead, because the Qun had no _use_ for her. Oh, Bull. Oh, Bull, I couldn’t stay. I just couldn’t. I thought I would come apart.”

 

Bull realizes, and it hits him like a fist to the gut, what she’s doing here. “Tama—you need help? Being without the Qun, it… it’s not good, at first.”

 

She trembles. Proud, his tama. Always has been. Bull squeezes her, amends his approach.

 

“Maybe you just wanna stay for a little while? Sort some stuff out? We can talk about it later, if you want. You’ve had a long trip. Maybe you just wanna rest?”

 

“Yes, I do,” she says, wearily, and Bull helps her to her feet. She smiles through a sheen of tears, places a hand on his face. “Bull. I am so sorry, for placing you as a soldier. You didn’t deserve that life.”

 

“No one deserves that life,” he tells her, but he wipes her tears away. “But I don’t regret a thing. All the shit I went through—it got me here. And I’m needed here. I fit here better than I could fit anywhere else in the entire world, Qun or no.”

 

She laughs, and hugs him, and he holds her as tightly as Dorian did for him that day, the day he left everything behind to start anew.

 

* * *

 

Dorian isn’t asleep when Bull comes into their room, though he pretends to be. Bull can tell by the rhythm of his breathing and the tightness in his back and shoulders that he’s awake. He sits down on the edge of the bed, reaches, runs gentle fingertips along his husband’s ribcage, and Dorian shivers.

 

“Hey,” Bull says, rests his palm on Dorian’s hip. “I love you.”

 

No response, for a moment—and then Dorian’s hand twines with his. Bull smiles and leans down, kisses Dorian’s strong shoulder.

 

“Will you fuck me?”

 

Dorian rolls over, blinks at him. Nods, slowly. Bull kisses him, gives Dorian his tongue and wraps a hand around Dorian’s cock, strokes him, slow and steady, until he’s hard. Dorian grabs his own balls and squeezes to keep from coming, eyes dark, and grabs their oil off the nightstand.

 

Bull gives himself over to it. Lets Dorian _give_ to him, and Dorian seems happy to do it, his cock thick and hot and smooth inside Bull’s body, and it’s so good that Bull comes just from that. Dorian groans, leans down to kiss him, tangles them together while he spills deep inside.

 

They don’t clean up. Dorian doesn’t even pull out. They just go to sleep, an obscene mess of limbs and wet and heat, and the ache in the morning is well worth it.

 

* * *

 

Dorian can’t do it—hate her. He does, but he _can’t_. She’s the woman who raised the man he loves, and if he doesn’t even understand _why_ he hates her, then he can’t let that sick feeling go on. Bull tells him that Tama is going to stay for a bit, tells him that Tama is Tal-Vashoth now. Dorian remembers what that did to Bull, losing the Qun, and Tama’s been under it a lot longer. He nods, promises to do all he can to help, and absolutely hates himself when Bull beams and kisses him, feels so undeserving of that tenderness when he just wants the woman to _go_.

 

The kids absolutely love her. They love sitting in her lap and listening to her sing. Ataashi falls asleep on her shoulder when she sings him a lullaby, and Dorian has to excuse himself and sit in his room and let himself cry at that, hot and angry. He feels like Ataashi’s betrayed him. He feels like an _idiot_ , and an asshole. He feels like scum.

 

It just gets worse. This woman is always in their space. She seems to know _exactly_ what to do when one of the children cries. She and Bull put tiny little bits of vitaar on Ataashi, and he looks magnificent and qunari and Dorian wants to put him in the bath and scrub it all away. He asks Felix is he fancies a walk, but Felix is fascinated with watching his brother get painted up. Dorian goes by himself and pisses off the battlements.

 

The worst of it happens when Tama’s been with them two weeks. (The kids call her Tama, too, and Dorian absolutely fucking _despises_ that. _Bull_ is their tama. _Dorian_ should be more tama to them than Tama is, but fuck, they call her that anyway, what else are they going to call her? “Strange woman who got the Iron Bull sent to Seheron”?) Felix is crying, inconsolable over something or other, seems upset more than angry, and Dorian is trying to soothe him with magic and little whispers, and Tama plucks the child cleanly from his arms and starts murmuring to him in Qunlat.

 

Dorian grabs Felix back. Not rough, never rough, but he’s _shaking_ , so angry he can feel tears pricking his eyes, and Tama looks at him with raised brows.

 

“ _Felix_ is not a qunari,” he snaps. “That drivel means nothing to him.”

 

And oh, fuck. Oh, he hates himself. _Hates_ himself. He wants to vomit. Because it’s nothing to him anymore, the strife between Tevinter and the Qun, he doesn’t _care_ , he _loves_ a qunari. If Tevinter asked him to take a stand now, today, he would paint himself up with vitaar and stick a pair of horns on his head and bellow at them like the savage they expect.

 

And, besides. That drivel means _everything_ to Felix. That drivel is half of who he is. He won’t grow horns, he doesn’t have grey skin, he won’t hit seven feet when he’s grown, but Felix is half qunari.

Dorian sits down on the nearest chair and bursts into tears. He holds Felix to his chest and cries into his sweet curls, and Tama just sits and stares at him, not puzzled, not upset, just quiet. He rocks his son and thinks, _I sound like some wretched ‘Vint_. And then, _I sound like my father_. And hates, hates, hates himself.

 

“I’m sorry,” Tama says, and anger licks up into every crack and crevice of Dorian’s being. “I shouldn’t presume to know better than you. Felix is your son.”

 

“They are both my sons!” Dorian snaps, still hating, hating it all. Felix has gone quiet in his arms, tense. “Felix and Ataashi _both!_ ” He doesn’t pronounce Ataashi the way she does, the way Bull does, even the way Felix does, even though he’s _tried_. “And you—you— _how could you send him to Seheron?_ ”

 

Tama just looks at him, keeps looking at him, even, measured. “I didn’t.”

 

“You told _them_ he should be a soldier! _Bull!_ You thought _Bull_ should be a soldier! Had you ever even _met_ him? What made you think for even one fucking _moment_ that that man should spend his life _killing_?”

 

Bull touches so gently. He kisses so gently. Even when they’re red and raw with want and Dorian is tied down and _begging_ for it and Bull is fucking him wild, he’s so gentle. Bull drinks and laughs with the Chargers, swings his arm around Krem’s shoulders, arm-wrestles Dalish, teases Stitches, so gentle. Bull changes nappies and gives baths and feeds from bottles and rubs horn balm into Ataashi’s nubs and carries Felix around on his shoulders, laughing, so damn _gentle_. And at the end of the day, when the little ones are asleep, there is nothing rough or angry or demanding about the hands he places on Dorian’s waist, about the kisses he presses to Dorian’s lips, about the bruises he sucks into Dorian’s skin. Gently, gently, making Dorian feel loved, building a home with him, sweeping him away.

 

“I regret it,” Tama says, and Dorian looks at her, sucking in hard breaths that threaten to break his ribs, eyes blurry. She reaches for him, places a hand on his knee. “I regret it every day. I lied. I lied about the Sun.” Dorian doesn’t know what the fuck that means, doesn’t care. “I left the Qun, I became Tal-Vashoth, because of Bull. The day I received his letter, the day I learned about you, about your imekari, I left. Because I was wrong. Because it is a miracle that I was wrong and Bull lived long enough to find you.”

 

She is crying, too. It shocks Dorian down to his core. He presses his face into Felix’s curls and sobs, hard, brokenly, thinks about that day on the Storm Coast, thinks about Bull’s tombstone in the Fade, _madness_ , thinks about the moments he has talked Bull down from Reaver-like bloodlust, thinks about the time Krem pulled him aside in the tavern and asked him, seriously, not to fuck around with Bull’s heart.

 

Dorian had said, “That would entail fucking around with myself,” and that was the first time Krem gave him a real smile.

 

“I don’t _want_ ,” Dorian starts, stops, keens quietly. “I don’t want him to _hurt_ anymore.”

 

“He doesn’t,” Tama says, sitting beside him, stroking his hair, and Dorian leans into it. “Because of you, imekari. Because of you, he doesn’t. I am sorry. I was selfish. I came here to make amends. To see for myself that I had not doomed him when I set him on his path. My role—my role has always been to do right by imekari. I was supposed to do _right_ by Ashka—by Bull. You’ve done what I could not. And I resented you for it. So I am sorry.”

 

Dorian laughs, hiccups, shakes his head. “He _adores_ you. The children adore you. You’re better than me at all the things that I—I—can you understand this? I need them to _need_ me.”

 

“They do,” she soothes, and it is so ridiculous, to sit here crying like a child, to sit here being comforted by Bull’s tama, who is the one who’s infuriated him so. “Dorian, they do.”

 

They sit there for a long time, Felix between them. They only move when he announces that he’s hungry.

 

* * *

 

 Bull comes back with Ataashi on his horns, whistling, having just walloped Krem in front of his laughing girl, but at least now Krem’s got an excuse to let Maryden dote on him a little. He opens the door, sucks in a breath to call for Dorian, and stops with one foot in the air when he sees what’s unfolding in the living room.

 

Dorian, seated on the floor, turns to look at him and smiles. “Welcome home.”

 

“Uh.” Bull steps inside, closes the door. “What the fuck?”

 

Tama looks up from where she’s painting on Dorian’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s very dilute. Humans can build up a resistance to vitaar, you know.”

 

Bull sets Ataashi down and hurries inside, bending down and taking Dorian’s face in his hands. “What is this? Why are you—are you okay? Do you feel sick? Shit, Dorian, what are you—”

 

“Amatus,” Dorian says gently, places his hands over Bull’s. “It’s fine. Tama knows what she’s doing.”

 

“You shouldn’t be—you don’t have to wear vitaar.”

 

“I want to.” Dorian raises his eyebrows. “If you can stand to stomach tea from Tevinter, I think I can stand to wear vitaar.”

 

“Those are _not the same_ , kadan _._ Tevinter tea isn’t _poison._ ”

 

“One wouldn’t know that, from the way you complain about it,” Dorian quips, and Bull smiles a little despite himself.

 

“Look, Tam,” Felix pipes up, from behind Tama, and Bull blanches at the sight of the black that his son has smeared all over his face and arms and hands.

 

“It’s just paint,” Dorian says quickly, catching Bull’s wrist. “No vitaar until he’s much older, obviously, and only if he wants.”

 

“Shit,” Bull mutters, and looks down at his husband, at the curling floral patterns Tama is painting on his shoulderblades. “Shit, babe. You look—I mean, you look good. You’ve gone positively native.”

 

Dorian laughs, delighted, and tilts his head to see his new decoration. “I think I may get tattoos, next.”

 

“They would look beautiful on you,” Tama says, and Dorian beams.

 

Bull looks from one to the other, bemused, and shakes his head. “Hey. Did I miss something?”

 

Dorian chuckles, lifts a hand and runs his fingertips along Bull’s horn, down the side of his face, cups his chin. “Yes. Don’t worry about it.”

 

Bull shrugs. “Alright. I won’t.” And he leans in, kisses his husband’s smiling lips, runs a hand through his hair.

 

Gently.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Saarebas

Nothing settles quite like a Ferelden ale in a tavern at the end of a long day of dragon hunting. The Iron Bull relaxes against the bar, chin in his palm, watching his cheery comrades sharing tales of their victory, smiles all around. It’s weird not to be in Skyhold, but there’s something refreshing about being on the road again. Even if he misses—

 

“Hey, big boy. This seat taken?”

 

Bull blinks and looks around. A woman—tallish, curvy as hell, _red-headed_ , crap—indicates the seat beside him. He frowns and peers across the bar, Dalish was sitting there just a moment—ah. Of course. She’s stolen into the corner to kiss Skinner. Figures.

 

“Nope, guess not,” Bull says, offering her a smile, and she takes a seat. The barkeep brings her an ale.

 

“I’m Marianne,” she says, smiling sweetly at him.

 

“Iron Bull.” He shakes her hand, and doesn’t miss the way she brushes her fingers along his when they part. Not because he’s Ben-Hassrath, but because he’s not a complete ignoramus.

 

“So. Iron Bull.” She sips from her drink, eyes all but glowing at him over the rim of her mug. “Are you from around?”

 

“Nope. We’re from further north.”

 

“We?”

 

“Me and most of the idiots offering their patronage tonight,” Bull says, gesturing around the bar. Stitches has jumped onto a table and is singing loudly and more than a little poorly.

 

“Only around for a bit, then?”

 

“Yep. We’ll be moving out tomorrow.”

 

“Tomorrow, huh.” She rests a hand on his arm, raises her eyebrows. Shit. Seven years ago, he’d be out of his pants already for this chick. “That leaves tonight, then, doesn’t it.”

 

But it’s not seven years ago. “Hey, I’m flattered. But I’m actually married.”

 

Marianne raises an eyebrow. “Uh huh. If you don’t want to, it’s okay.”

 

“No, really.” Bull stands up and scans the bar, picking out his quarry by the sound of his laugh. “That guy, right there. That’s the husband.”

 

Marianne leans up and snorts. “What? You’re telling me that absolutely fucking _gorgeous_ ‘Vint is your husband?”

 

Bull grins. He has to shout to be heard over the din. “Hey, Dorian!”

 

Dorian unhooks his arm from around a drunken Cullen’s shoulders and looks around. He raises his eyebrows when he sees Bull. “What?” he calls back.

 

“We’re married, aren’t we?”

 

Dorian huffs and rolls his eyes. “Are you drunk? Of course we’re married.” He turns away pointedly, waving his hand for another drink, and Bull turns back to Marianne with a wide smile.

 

“Told you.”

 

“Holy shit,” she says weakly. “That’s the worst I’ve ever struck out. But damn, is he a catch. You two ever think about bringing in a third?”

 

“Sorry. He’s only into guys.”

 

“And you?”

 

Bull offers her an easy grin. “I’m only into him.”

 

Marianne “aww”s, and they shoot the shit over another round of drinks. She’s a trader, on the road with no real destination. Maybe halfway looking for somewhere to put down some roots. Bull tells her about Skyhold. She likes the sound of it.

 

“Is that where you live?”

 

“Yep. Me and Dorian are raising a coupla kids there.”

 

“You have children? But you’re—”

 

“Took ‘em in after all that nastiness with Corypheus a few years back.”

 

“Boys? Girls?”

 

“Two boys. One Tevinter, one qunari.”

 

“Bull, darling, you’re not boring your new friend with tales about our little monsters, surely,” Dorian drawls, and Bull grins when his husband slips into his lap and presses a kiss to his jaw. Dorian will claim up and down and left and right that he’s not the jealous type, the fact that he is _very much_ the jealous type entirely notwithstanding.

 

“I am, actually, but only ‘cuz she asked,” Bull assures him, looping an arm loosely around his waist. “Marianne here says you’re fucking gorgeous.”

 

“And she’s quite right,” Dorian says, offering her his hand, and she kisses his knuckles with a laugh.

 

* * *

 

The best part about being away from Skyhold—the _best_ —is the prospect of loud, rowdy sex in an overpriced inn’s smallest room without the fear of waking up their kids. Dorian is hot and eager against him, tugging Bull into their room and toward the bed by his harness, grinding shamelessly into Bull’s body.

 

“Mm.” Bull slides a hand down Dorian’s back and gives his ass a squeeze, smiling at Dorian’s sweet little moan. “You want it, huh, kadan?”

 

“Yes,” Dorian breathes, and Bull laughs, scooping him up with arms around the waist and depositing him smoothly on the bed. Dorian pushes himself up on his elbows, pupils blown, lips parted in anticipation as Bull tugs his leggings down, revealing the expanse of his long, dark legs. “Bull.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Do you—do you want to bring someone else to bed with us?”

 

Bull lifts his head and blinks. “Hey—I wasn’t trying to flirt with that Marianne chick. I told her I was married right off.”

 

“No—no, I know.” Dorian smiles, leaning up and stroking gentle fingertips along Bull’s jaw. “I’m just—asking. If you need something more, amatus, you can tell me.”

 

Bull shrugs. “I don’t have anyone on my mind, if that’s what you mean. We’re good together, Dorian. The best. You give me all I need, in bed and otherwise.”

 

His husband’s gaze softens. “Good. I’m glad.”

 

“We good?”

 

“Yes. Come up here and take me.”

 

Bull grins and obeys. It astounds him, that here together, seven years after the fact, sex can still feel like their first time. There’s a rhythm they know well, and Bull knows just about everything Dorian likes, but there are still these soft, breathless moments where Dorian looks at him, touches him just so, kisses him just so, and Bull feels heat and love that take him right back to their first few fevered months together.

 

Dorian’s lips are soft, plush, swollen, begging for a kiss, and Bull stops grinding against his cock to bend down and answer the call. Dorian runs his hands up his husband’s thick arms, humming happily into his mouth, eyelids fluttering closed.

 

“Hey,” Bull says, speaking against Dorian’s mouth, swallowing his soft moan, “I want to do something.”

 

“Mm. What’s that?”

 

“I want to do it like we did the first time.”

 

Dorian draws back a little, dark lashes lifting. Bull can’t help but lean in, sucking Dorian’s lower lip between his teeth, letting it fall back with a wet _plop_. Oh, fuck, but Dorian tastes good. “Oh. Recreate our first night?”

 

Bull snorts. “You don’t always have to say shit prettier than me.”

 

“Oh hush,” Dorian huffs, resting his hands on either side of Bull’s large neck, canting his head to the side. “That’s… that could be nice.”

 

Bull hums and turns his head, lets Dorian’s thumb stroke over his lips. “It’s okay if you don’t want to. Maybe it brings up some painful shit or something, or…”

 

“No,” Dorian says quickly. “No. Don’t fret about that.”

 

“You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

 

“Certainly not,” Dorian murmurs, and the depth and timber of his voice has Bull shivering against him. “Alright. Let’s.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” Dorian sits up, kisses him once more, and swings his legs off the bed. He redresses himself, heat still coloring his cheeks, erection straining against his leggings, and Bull chuckles.

 

“We don’t have to go that far back.”

 

“No, I want to,” Dorian says, waving at him, and heads for the door. “You know what to do, amatus.”

 

Bull throws himself across the bed, heat thrumming in his veins, grinning up at the ceiling. He remembers this night, so well, so crisp and clear. Lounging in his room, reading through some old reports. That was around the time he started fudging them a little, leaving out details that might be used to hurt the people he’d come to regard as his friends. Leliana’s grief over the loss of the Divine. Evelyn’s crippling fear of spiders. Cullen’s slow recovery from red lyrium addiction. Dorian’s shit with his father. Come to think of it, around this time, he’d stopped sending reports on Dorian altogether.

 

Come to think of it—this was the first night he realized just how much shit Tevinter had done to Dorian. How much Tevinter had compressed him, stifled him, closed him up inside. How scared he’d been to accept the intimacy Bull offered, how shocked he’d been to find that he wasn’t about to be someone’s quick, easy lay—

 

A knock at the door, but Dorian doesn’t wait before he saunters in, one imperious eyebrow arched, face schooled into careful nonchalance despite the obvious bulge between his legs.

 

“You were serious about the open door thing, then?”

 

“Yep,” Bull says, quashing his dark line of thought, and mimes tossing his reports aside. Dorian’s mouth twitches toward a grin for one measly second before straightening out. “Glad you took me up on it.”

 

“I haven’t taken you up on anything, yet,” Dorian replies, and it warms Bull to bits that his kadan remembers every word.

 

“Oh, no? You’re here, aren’t you?”

 

“That can change,” Dorian says, and shuts the door.

 

“Can,” Bull echoes, getting to his feet. He crosses the room and stops within arms’ reach of the man he married, quirking a rough grin. “Doesn’t mean it will.”

 

“Perhaps not,” Dorian drawls, and steps in closer, tilting his head back and looking up into Bull’s eye, a smile on his lips.

 

Bull decides to skip ahead a little; he remembers this dance, and he’s too impatient for it. If the look on Dorian’s face is any indication, he doesn’t want to wait, either. “What are you here for, Dorian? What do you want?”

 

“Whatever you’re offering,” Dorian murmurs, hooking a hand into Bull’s harness, and pulls him in for a searing kiss.

 

Bull tries not to get too into his own head about this whole thing, but it’s hard; being with Dorian again, replaying the night they finally faced the thing that had settled between them, it’s… powerful. He remembers it all so _vividly_ , Dorian going from confident and sultry to sweet and shy and back again so fast it practically gives Bull whiplash, makes it hard for him to tell what Dorian wants, what he _needs_ ; Dorian gasping into every kiss like he’s never felt anything like it, and all the pain that had stirred deep inside Bull’s chest; Dorian looking at him in confusion when Bull offered to eat him out, to help him relax, and oh, that made Bull want to burn Tevinter to the fucking _ground_.

 

He knows it’s coming, the part that might make him lose the plot—when he’s thick and deep inside the man he loves, Dorian under him, writhing, moaning, sweat glistening on his skin, cheeks dark red and lips swollen, and just like he did back then, Bull snaps his hips forward and holds steady inside and asks, “You gonna come?”

 

Back then—back then—Dorian had looked up at him and said “What?” in total, utter confusion, thrown for a loop. Bull had drawn out, sat back and pinched the base of his cock until the overwhelming need to orgasm abated a little, then taken Dorian into his lap and fucked him all over again, slowly, had taken him apart until Dorian was gasping and sobbing into his neck, shameless and pleading.

 

Dorian—who, back then, had come just from being fucked for the very first time, though he didn’t tell Bull until much later—looks up at him. “Wh—”

 

“Katoh,” Bull blurts, and Dorian drops his hands at once so Bull can pull out of him, back bowing at the sudden rush of sensation. Bull sits up, drops both feet to the floor. He’s shaking. “Fuck. Sorry, babe—I’m sorry.”

 

“No—shh. Bull. Shh.” Dorian sits up, wraps both of his arms around once of Bull’s, kisses his shoulder. “I—I know I’m not supposed to ask, but…”

 

“Fuck. No, it’s alright. I just…” Bull sighs, scrubbing his face with one hand. He tilts his head and kisses Dorian’s hair. “You were—you weren’t good, that night. I mean—! You were _good_ , but you weren’t… you know. You were still broken up, about…about a lot of things. Doing it again, it, um…” Bull sighs, looks down at his husband, traces a thumb along his jaw. “It hurts. Thinking about how much pain you were in back then. You were hurting, and I just…fucked you.”

 

“Bull.” Dorian’s brows knit, and he climbs into his husband’s lap, lacing his arms around Bull’s neck. Bull leans into him, releasing a long, slow breath, until their foreheads touch. Dorian kisses his nose. “Bull, amatus, you couldn’t have known what I was going through. And you were ever so gentle. So kind. I was _looking_ for a quick fuck, and you made me feel wanted.” Dorian tilts his head and kisses him on the mouth, all slow and soft, sweet and chaste. “Please don’t apologize for that.”

 

“Mm.” Bull shifts, wrapping his arms around Dorian’s waist and pulling him in closer, holding him tight. “Thanks.”

 

“Anytime.” Dorian rests his head against Bull’s shoulder, sighs softly, runs his hands over Bull’s broad chest. He traces the shape of the dragon’s tooth resting between his lover’s pectorals. “Do you want to go home?”

 

“Wh—right now?”

 

“Right now.” Dorian looks up at him, offers him a smile. “This little sojourn has been delightful, but I miss our imekari.”

 

Well, shit. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go. Shit.” He laughs, pulls Dorian in for a warm kiss before helping him off the bed, giving his ass a gentle swat. “You go leave a note on Evie’s door. I’ll pack up.”

 

And just like that, a mere hour after crashing into bed together, they leave, hand in hand, giggling as they walk down the dark streets toward the stable to collect their mounts. The stablehand is visibly irritable at being roused, and they tip him handsomely before mounting up and setting off down the winding road that will carry them home.

 

The night is cool and crisp, and Dorian procures a little fleet of wisps to light their way. He looks glorious bathed in their soft golden light, and Bull can hardly stand to take his eyes off of him.

 

“Hey,” he says suddenly, and Dorian looks at him. “I didn’t get you off.”

 

“Oh. No, I suppose you didn’t.”

 

“You okay? You were pretty hard, kadan.”

 

Dorian smiles. “You know that little stream? About an hour’s ride from here.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“We’ll stop there,” his mage says, cheekily, and gives his reins a snap, urging his horse into a gallop.

 

Laughing, Bull does the same, chasing after him through the night.

 

* * *

Ataashi sighs. He knows he’s in the Fade—that’s nothing new. He goes there sometimes when he sleeps. He knows he’s in the Fade because even though it looks like home, there are pieces that are wrong. Sometimes he sees scary stuff while he’s there—one time he saw Papa hurt, all covered in blood, and Tam standing over him calling him “bas saarebas” (which Ataashi knows is a bad word). He had to sleep in Papa and Tam’s room that night, and cried so much that Felix teased him the next day.

 

Tonight the Fade looks like his room, but there’s spiders in all the corners, and Felix isn’t in the bed beside him, and smoke’s curling in from under the door. Ataashi sighs again and conjures a wisp. It floats around and doesn’t get scary, so he conjures more. He can do lots of magic in the Fade; when he doesn’t have nightmares, being in the Fade is _fun_.

 

Once he has enough wisps, the spiders start to retreat. They melt back into the walls, and the smoke starts to clear. Ataashi focuses on the wisps, just like Papa taught him, and thinks about his room, how his room _should_ look. Felix always sleeps next to him—there. No cobwebs in the corners—there. Ataashi looks around, starts making other things. Elfroot curls from the planter on their windowsill. He’s always liked the smell. He squints at the bookshelf until it fills with books from Papa’s library. He presses a hand over his left eye and after a moment, he’s wearing Tam’s eyepatch, and giggles.

 

“—Ashi?”

 

Someone shakes him. Ataashi drops back into himself and jumps, flailing, until Felix grabs his arm and shakes him again.

 

“Ashi? You okay? Ashi?”

 

Ataashi stills, gets his bearings. Squints up and makes out his brother in the dark. “Hi, Felix.”

 

Felix scowls, rubs a fist against his eye. “Didja have a nightmare?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“You were talking. And—” He points, and Ataashi follows his finger. Oh. He’s made wisps—not as many as he made in the Fade, just three or four, but they’re pretty bright, getting brighter now that he’s awake.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Want me to get Tama?”

 

“Nope.” Ataashi snuggles back into his blankets and lets the wisps _pop_ away. He misses their light at once.

 

“Okay.” But Felix hovers. “Hey, Ashi?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“What’s bas saarebas?”

 

Ashi shivers. “It’s a bad word.”

 

“You said it.”

 

“Don’t tell Tam, ‘kay?”

 

“Okay.” Felix turns and climbs back into his bed, curly hair disappearing beneath his blanket. “Tell me if you need Tama.”

 

Ataashi nods—Felix can’t see him, though—and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s tired, really tired. He doesn’t want to go back to the Fade. He wriggles a hand beneath his pillow, grips the amulet Papa gave him. It’s supposed to keep the scary things away, but sometimes it keeps him from dreaming too. He wonders what it’s like, to dream like everyone else—to dream like Felix dreams. He wishes he didn’t have to dream at all, like Tam.

 

He lays awake for a little while, tired but too scared to sleep. He wishes Felix would have stayed up a little longer. He could go get Tama, but Tama doesn’t really understand the Fade, or his dreaming, and it scares her even worse than it scares him. And—

 

A door opens. He hears voices, whispering—hears something go _thud_ , and his heart jumps when he hears Tam laugh. Ataashi scrambles out of bed, catches his blanket on his horns and shakes it loose before hurrying to the door. He opens it as quietly as he can, so he won’t wake Felix up again, and pads into the living room.

 

Papa and Tam are back—they weren’t supposed to get back for two more sun-ups, Tama said. They’re hugging each other, and kissing, and usually Ashi wouldn’t interrupt, because they like doing that and Tam says they don’t get to do it enough, but he really, _really_ missed them.

 

“Hi,” he says, loudly, and they jump a little before they let go of each other and look at him.

 

“Ashi?” Papa crosses the room and bends down, and Ataashi hugs him happily. “Hello, imekari—what are you doing up? Did we wake you?”

 

“Nope. I couldn’t sleep.”

 

Papa picks him up—if Felix were there, then Ataashi wouldn’t let him, because Felix says he’s five and that’s too big to let Papa pick him up—but the Fade was scary tonight, and Felix is asleep, so Ataashi holds on tight. Tam comes over and kisses him on the head, and Ataashi lets him do that, too.

 

“Hey, kiddo. You alright? Had a nightmare?”

 

Ataashi nods. Papa’s kinda sweaty, which is gross, but he also smells like elfroot.

 

“How frightening was it, Ashi?” Papa asks, gently, and starts rocking him a little. He did that all the time when Ashi was a baby, Tam’s told him. “Did anything try to speak to you?”

 

“No.”

 

“How did you make it less frightening?”

 

“Made some wisps,” Ashi says, and Papa pats his back. “And made the room different.”

 

Papa goes very still. Tam makes a snorting noise. “You… how did you do that, Ataashi?”

 

Ashi shrugs and lifts his head off Papa’s shoulder. “Just did. Just had to think about it real hard, first.”

 

Papa looks at Tam, and Tam looks back at him. Ashi can’t tell what they’re saying to each other, when they do the eye-talking thing. He and Felix try to do it sometimes, but Ashi never knows what they’re trying to say.

 

“You wanna stay with us tonight, kiddo?” Tam asks, all gentle, and puts his hand on Ashi’s head.

 

Ashi frowns. “Don’t you wanna have sex, though?”

 

They both stare at him. Then Tam starts laughing, big belly laughs, and has to grab onto the table when he almost falls down. Papa’s mouth hangs open.

 

“ _What?_ Ashi, where did you—where did you learn that word?”

 

“Auntie Sera,” Ashi says, shrugs. “She says grown-ups have sex after they kiss a bunch.”

 

Papa closes his mouth, and his eyes narrow. He hands Ashi to Tam, who is still laughing. “Auntie Sera and I will be having _words_ later. And _you_ , quit your _cackling,_ please.”

 

“S’alright, Ash,” Tam says, gasping. He wipes tears away from his eye. “But you better not talk about that stuff, okay? Like Sera said, it’s for grown-ups.”

 

Ashi nods. That’s alright. If it comes after kissing, it’s probably gross, anyway.

 

* * *

Over the next few days, Dorian is quiet—uncharacteristically so. He rises early, kisses the kids, and retreats into the library. Bull taps Tama to help him with the little ones, gives Dorian space to work through… whatever it is he’s working through. Dorian comes back home late each night, slips into bed without a word. He still snuggles in close, lets Bull wrap an arm around him and press kisses into his hair. Bull figures that’s a good sign.

 

So it’s not until Dorian gets into bed and stays on the far side, curled into himself, that Bull decides it’s time they talk.

 

“Hey,” he says lowly, reaches across the bed and finds Dorian’s back, runs his knuckles down his husband’s spine. Dorian shudders. “What’s wrong, kadan?”

 

“He goes _all_ the _time,_ Bull.”

 

“Who goes where?” Bull sits up, props himself against the headboard. “Dorian. C’mere.”

 

Dorian shivers, but he rolls over and scoots closer, pillows himself in Bull’s lap and wraps an arm around Bull’s waist. Bull lowers a hand and runs it through his husband’s hair.

 

“Ataashi. He walks the Fade almost nightly. I thought perhaps it might be because he’s qunari—I don’t know anything about qunari mages, Bull, _no one_ does. Except the Qunari themselves, of course, but the saarebas...” He keens, quietly, and Bull rests a hand on the back of his neck. “I think Ashi is somniari.”

 

Bull hesitates. “That’s…a Dreamer? Like…”

 

“Solas,” Dorian confirms lowly, and Bull releases a long sigh. “We can fit all we know about the Dreamers on a few pages. Inquisitor Ameridan's lover, Telana, was a Dreamer, as was a magister by the name of Aurelian Titus.”

 

“Didn’t your girl Mae help take him down?”

 

“Yes,” Dorian says, fondness softening the obvious weariness in his voice. “I’ve written her. Perhaps she will have advice.”

 

They sit in silence for a time. Bull keeps his hand on Dorian’s skin, feeling his warmth. Needing it, badly, in these fragile moments where they teeter on the edge of something that may be too big for them to face.

 

“Dorian,” he says at last, when he can’t take the quiet, “what do we do?”

 

“I… don’t know.” Dorian sits up, scrubs a hand over his face. He looks wiped out. Bull reaches for him, runs his hands down his husband’s strong arms. “I just don’t know, Bull. I don’t know if there’s anything we _can_ do. Try to keep him from dreaming, perhaps. I know there are herbs that will…amulets that might…” His voice breaks, and Bull wraps him up in his arms.

 

“Shh,” he murmurs, when Dorian starts to cry. “Shh, kadan. Shh. We’ll be okay. Shh, babe, come here…”

 

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Dorian chokes out, and his laugh is a weak, bitter thing. He grips Bull’s shoulders, pressing his face into his husband’s neck. “The first Pavus in generations who didn’t breed, and I wind up father to the perfect mage.”

 

“Better write your old man and tell him we’re rearing the next archon.”

 

Dorian laughs again, a little more life in it. “Bull…”

 

“Dorian, he’s our kid. We won’t let anything happen to him.”

 

“We can tell ourselves that, at least,” Dorian murmurs. Bull catches the hand that wanders over his dragon’s tooth, squeezes it tight. After a moment, Dorian squeezes back.

 

* * *

Maeveris Tilani doesn’t write back.

 

She does, however, show up.

 

For months and months afterward, Bull will rib Dorian about it. “At least I _told_ you Tama was coming, kadan.” “Blew in here like a hurricane, that Mae, eh, kadan?” “Gee, sure am glad we had all that time to get ready for Mae. Huh. Kadan. _Huh_.”

 

And Dorian will tell him—pointedly—that he doesn’t _control_ Mae. All the forces of heaven and earth combined can’t control Mae.

 

Dorian sits in the library, Ataashi dozing in his lap—the poor little thing sleeps poorly at night, has taken to napping during the day—with his copy of the _Liberalum_ open on his non-occupied leg. He’s just lifting his pen to make a note in an already well-marked margin when he hears fast footsteps on the stairs, and Josephine appears in his nook, red-faced and panting.

 

“Josie,” he says, startled by her sudden appearance. “What’s—”

 

“A—magister,” she wheezes out, clutching a stitch in her side.

 

Dorian’s on his feet in a flash, handing her Ashi, who starts awake. He grabs his staff from behind his chair and hurries down the stairs, ignoring, as always, Solas’ murals on the walls, which no one has had the heart to paint over. He throws open the door and sprints into the main hall, reaching for his the Fade, feels it crackling along his fingertips—

 

And stops in his tracks when he sees Maeveris Tilani chatting animatedly with Varric.

 

“Holy _shit_ ,” he says, a touch more loudly than he’d intended. Mae whirls around, her dress billowing around her, and her face splits into a grin.

 

“ _There’s_ my lovely orchid,” she purrs, opening her arms.

 

For one more stunned moment, he can’t even move—and then he bursts into laughter, dropping his staff and hurrying to her, throwing his arms around her waist and giving her a twirl. “Mae! _Holy shit_ —what are you _doing_ here?”

 

“Is that supposed to be a joke?” She cups his face in her hands, beaming up at him. “Dorian, you write to tell me that you have not one, but _two_ children, that one of them is—well, you know what you wrote—and then you expect me _not_ to hurry here forthwith? I thought you knew me better.”

 

He mentally checks the date. “Mae, the Magisterium is in session.”

 

“The Magisterium can go fuck itself,” she says flatly, and he laughs as he hugs her again.

 

Josephine comes downstairs, wary, clutching Ataashi to her chest. He’s awake and sniffling, fist pressed to his mouth, watching Dorian with watery eyes.

 

“Oh, imekari, come here,” Dorian soothes, taking his son into his arms and rubbing his back. “Shh, I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s alright. I’ve an old friend who’s come to visit, would you like to meet her?”

 

Ataashi nods against his shoulder, and Dorian offers Josie an apologetic smile before turning to Maeveris. “Mae—this is Ataashi. Ashi, can you say hello to my friend Mae?”

 

Ashi peeks at her, squeaks “hi,” and hides again. Maeveris looks up at Dorian, beaming, breathless.

 

“Oh, Dorian. He’s beautiful.”

 

“He is,” Dorian says, kissing his son’s head, and his little qunlet whines. “Shall we head to the garden? We can talk more privately there.”

 

She loops her arm through his, and he leads her back through Solas’s old space, into the sprawling courtyard beyond. It’s quiet, and the gardeners and loungers don’t seem at all interested in eavesdropping on a few magisters. They find an unoccupied corner behind a bed of elfroot; Ataashi slides out of Dorian’s arms and plops down in the dirt, pressing his face to each plant and inhaling deeply.

 

“I missed you terribly, dear,” Mae says, patting Dorian’s knee. “Now please tell me how you came to have two children.”

 

Dorian laughs and tells her—she knows about Bull, used to cover for Dorian so he could slip away and meet Bull on the border during the six months he spent in Tevinter, helping her establish the Lucerni. Mae’s delighted to hear that they’ve gotten married—“I so hoped you would, darling, he is such a sweetheart”—but her faces grows solemn when he tells her about how they found the boys, and more solemn yet when he explains about Ataashi’s peculiar dreaming.

 

“Somniari,” she says softly, looking down at the qunlet playing with a pile of elfroot leaves. “And a qunari, at that.  Dorian, it’s… well. I don’t need to tell _you_ that it’s unheard of.”

 

“We’re worried,” Dorian says. “Should we be?”

 

“I don’t know. I really don’t. How are you protecting him?”

 

“Wards, an amulet—herbs to keep him from dreaming. He dislikes them, though. We don’t let him have lyrium, obviously.” He nods toward the planter. “And elfroot helps him keep calm when he’s in the Fade.”

 

“Has he made contact with demons?”

 

“Several times, now. Nothing particularly powerful.”

 

“Yet,” Maeveris says, and he nods.

 

“Yet.”

 

“Well, then.” She sighs, leans her back against Skyhold’s stone wall. “It looks like we have our work cut out for us, dearest.”

 

“We—do?”

 

“Of course. Doubtless you’ll need my expertise in this matter. Not that I don’t have utter faith in your ability to overcome, Dorian, but this matter is time sensitive, after all, and—”

 

Dorian cuts her off with both arms around her shoulders, squeezing her tight. “I love you, Mae.”

 

She beams, rubs her hand between his shoulderblades and kisses his cheek. “And I you, darling. So let’s see what we can do for your—what’s the word?”

 

“Imekari.”

 

“Imekari,” she repeats—and then freezes. “Oh. Maker. Is that him? Dorian, is that your Bull?”

 

Dorian turns; Bull is striding toward them, Felix in tow. “Ah. Yes, that’s him.”

 

“Tam!” Ataashi squeals, and scrambles to his feet, bounding across the courtyard, and Bull stoops to catch him at the last second, before his son can tackle his bad knee. “Tam, Papa’s friend is here!”

 

“So I see,” Bull rumbles, scooping Ashi up on his shoulder before taking Felix’s hand once more. That sight—their sons laughing, Bull grinning, kissing little heads and holding little hands—never fails to make Dorian’s heart clench.

 

“Amatus,” he says, getting to his feet, and accepts a brief kiss before turning and helping Mae up. “My dear friend, Magister—”

 

“Mae,” she interrupts, offering Bull her hand, and he kisses her knuckles. “You, I presume, are the Iron Bull, unless Dorian has _two_ dashing husbands.”

 

“Nope,” Bull says, grins. “Just me. Didn’t know you’d be dropping by, Magister.”

 

“It’s Mae, darling, or Maeveris if you absolutely must, and I meant to be a surprise. Which I suppose wasn’t terribly couth of me, I’d forgotten how little southerners care for us Tevinters. ‘Vints, I believe, is the word?”

 

Dorian winces and pats her back. “We try not to use it.”

 

“Oh, good. Now then.” She claps her hands together and turns to Dorian, smiling sweetly up at him. “I’m absolutely _famished_ , love, and I would positively _kill_ to lay down for a spell.”

 

“Oh! Right. I suppose you would. We, er—I think—”

 

“I can cook,” Bull says, and the look of pride Doran throws his way has him positively glowing. “Happy to. Mae ought to meet Tama, too.”

 

“Tama?” Maeveris says, looking at Dorian. Her eyebrows lift. “Who’s Tama?”

 

“Bull’s tamassran.”

 

“Wh—here?”

 

“Here,” Dorian says, grinning and slinging an arm around her shoulders, guiding her toward the door. Iron Bull chuckles and tags along behind them, children in tow. “Welcome to Skyhold, Mae.”

 

* * *

When they are not worrying about Ataashi, or warily watching Maeveris and Tama for signs that they may explode into active combat (which turns out not to be a problem; they adore one another), time passes quietly. Gently. The boys are no longer content to sit at home and listen to stories; they run and play with the other children who have been brought to Skyhold, and come home in the evening covered in dirt and beaming.

 

Well. Felix does. Felix plays tag and hide-and-seek and runs along after the Chargers and tries to pick up swords that are nearly twice as long as he is tall. He and Stroud are inseparable; one is rarely seen without the other, Stroud’s little hand enclosed in his, thumb tucked into her mouth as she tags along just behind him.

 

Ataashi tends to stay home. He stays near Dorian, even as Felix does his utmost to tug Bull out the door to play. Dorian is happy to have Ashi with him—he knows he only has so long to hold his son on his lap, because qunari children grow like _weeds_ —but he frets over the child’s uncharacteristic silence.

 

“He’s just tired,” Maeveris soothes, as they sit in his library nook, books in old Tevene spread between them, covering the tables they’ve dragged over, piled high on every available chair.

 

“He’s tired because he’s spending so much time in the Fade,” Dorian says tightly, stroking a hand over the shaggy white locks that have begun to spill into Ashi’s eyes. “What part of that, exactly, am I supposed to find especially comforting, Mae?”

 

She doesn’t rise to the bite in his tone, and for that, he’s grateful. “Perhaps we’re looking for answers in the wrong places. Do you suppose the elves might better understand Dreamers?”

 

“I can’t think of a reason why elves might try to _stop_ Dreaming. Their connection to the Fade is—intimate.”

 

“The Qunari, then?”

 

Dorian stiffens. “I—no.”

 

“Why not? Like it or not, their control of mages is second to—”

 

“Mae, _no_ ,” Dorian says, raising his voice. He tightens his arms around his little son, heart in his throat. “I can’t do that to him.”

 

“Do what?”

 

“Do—do _anything_ the Qunari do to their mages, I…” He shakes his head, pressing his mouth between Ashi’s horns. They’re just an inch long, just breaking the skin; Bull is so diligent about applying horn balm everyday, bringing Ashi into his morning ritual. Horn balm, vitaar, flexing for Papa. “They—Mae. They _collar_ their mages.”

 

“I know.” She reaches for him, places a hand on his knee. “But, Dorian—your child is not—not saarebas. He is _loved_ , wholly and unconditionally. But he is in danger. Can we afford to ignore a way to keep him safe?”

 

Dorian shivers. Ashi is warm and solid against his chest, drooling a little on his leathers. This child is everything to him—everything. He has been everything since Bull brought him home, since he first settled that tiny bundle in Dorian’s arms. The way Dorian loves this little qunari is entire, all-consuming. It is a love he thought he would never have, _could_ never have, without sacrificing a core piece of himself.

 

But he has fought saarebas. He knows the line they walk, something between madness and emptiness. He has come to understand that most of what he learned about Qunari was lies, propaganda—but not even the hive mind of Tevinter fear-mongering could concoct something more horrible than the truth of the saarebas.

 

“I can’t collar my son,” he says, lowly, and swallows thickly when his throat constricts. “I can’t.”

 

* * *

“We can’t.” The Iron Bull shakes his great head, brows furrowing. “I mean—no _way_.”

 

Dorian hums, leaning against his husband’s back and looping his arms around Bull’s shoulders. He presses a kiss to the shorn crown of Bull’s head. “I know. I know we _can’t_ , but if we—what if we must?”

 

“We can find another way.” Bull leans into him, but for once, the warmth of Dorian’s body doesn’t soothe the tension he’s carrying.

 

Dorian squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel the panic welling inside him, the fear—he tries to do what Bull’s taught him, tries to anchor himself firmly in this moment. Their room, dark and quiet, a fire crackling in the hearth. Bull’s horns shiny with balm, back pressed to Dorian’s front. Dorian holding him in their bed, on his knees behind him, charmed and smitten, as ever, by Bull’s sheer size. In love. Oh, he’s in love with this man. He can feel it in his chest, warm and heavy, so much pressure he can feel it squeezing his throat.

 

“Kadan,” he whispers, and feels Bull shudder in his arms. “I don’t know that there _is_ another way. Qunari mages are—so strong. And he’s a _Dreamer_.”

 

“Can we—can we not talk about this?”

 

“Bull—”

 

“Dorian, I know,” Bull says, his voice low and rough. “I know we _have to_. I just—not right now. Just—be with me.”

 

“I am,” Dorian breathes, pressing kisses to the nape of his husband’s neck. Bull smells so good, tastes so good. “Amatus. I am always with you.”

 

Bull turns, takes him in his arms, presses him into the bed. They kiss, slow and deep, and Dorian keens up into his husband’s mouth when a hand slips into his leggings and gives him a stroke.

 

“C’mere, baby,” Bull murmurs. “Let me hear you.”

 

Dorian does.

 

* * *

Josephine listens. Dorian has to stop halfway through, collect himself, and she sits quietly, lets him take the time he needs. When he finishes, she nods, and places a hand on his arm.

 

“I’ll find whatever you need, Dorian,” she says. Her voice is so gentle—he feels tears welling in his eyes and lowers his head quickly.

 

“We may not—when it comes down to it, we might not—”

 

“I know,” she soothes, and he swallows hard. “But should you need it, I shall make sure it’s there for you.”

 

Dorian doesn’t ask where she intends to find a saarebas collar. He doesn’t want to know. He can’t stand to think on it any longer.

 

* * *

He still slips into the Fade on occasion, despite his own tight control on his magic. He knows it well, and he can’t shape it the way his son can, but there is an easy familiarity beyond the Veil. He finds himself sitting in his old study in Gereon Alexius’s villa, and chuckles as he runs his hands over his old books, his old notes. This might as well have been a thousand years ago.

 

“Morning, Dorian.”

 

Oh. His heart clenches. He turns and sees Felix Alexius lounging in the doorway, a smile on his face, holding up a platter of cakes.

 

“Felix,” he murmurs. Not Felix, of course. Some demon or spirit wearing his face. Dorian knows that, but he has _missed_ him. Missed his first true friend. “Oh, Felix. It’s so good to see you.”

 

“You just saw me last night,” Felix says lightly, and steps into the room, offering up the platter. “Are you hungry? I know you’ve been here since dawn.”

 

Dorian feels tears in his eyes. He takes the platter and sets it aside, then wraps both arms around his friend, pulls him close. This is cruel. Perhaps this is some spirit of love, or of grief, and perhaps it has good intentions, but this is _cruel_.

 

“Dorian?” A cautious hand settles on his back. “Are you alright?”

 

“I miss you,” Dorian says softly. He squeezes his eyes shut, and tears spill down his cheeks. “I wish I could talk to you. I need your help, Felix. You always gave sound advice. How were you so wise, as young as you were?”

 

“Dorian, what’s wrong? I’m right here. You can talk to me.” Felix steps back, holds him at arms’ length. He smiles. “You’re not acting like yourself.”

 

“I know. I’m not the man I was back then.” Dorian sighs, wipes a hand across his eyes. “I fell in love, Felix. I have children. One of them is named for you. He’s absolutely darling, he… he’s so much like _Bull_. He’s just a little Charger.”

 

“I know my father’s expecting you, but how about we play hooky?” Felix said, clapping him on the shoulder. “It’s been ages since we went to Minrathous.”

 

Dorian smiles. “It has, hasn’t it.” He pats Felix’s cheek, squeezes his shoulder. “Thank you for this. I needed to see him again.”

 

The entity wearing Felix’s face tilts its head. “Dorian, won’t you bring your son next time? We love Ataashi.”

 

Dorian sucks in a breath. He closes his eyes, reaches into the bastion of his mana. Electricity crackles between his fingertips. “Stay away,” he murmurs. The temperature in the room plummets—he feels them, the spirits and demons of the Fade, reaching for him, drawn to his magic. He knows his study is falling away, he can feel the tasteful paper peeling from the walls, the structure crumbling, his books catching fire. The charade is over. He knows. They are reaching for him, using him to get to Ataashi, to the Dreamer.

 

“Bring him,” Felix’s doppelganger says, and it’s almost a moan. “Bring him, bring Ataashi, bring him next time, bring him.”

 

“No.” Dorian opens his eyes, focuses past the Veil rippling around him. He grips the entity by the shoulders, tries not to see Felix’s face, so open and so gentle. “You won’t have my son.”

 

He releases just a touch of his mana, lets it ripple from him in waves, fills the air with lightning. The spirit recoils—perhaps it is a demon, after all—and screams, he feels it rushing away from him. The other sycophants he has summoned withdraw as well, hissing their pain, held at bay by the bite of his magic. He feels wild. He feels magnificent. Bull loves to watch Dorian wield his magic; Dorian wishes he were here. Bull would find him absolutely resplendent, haloed by lightning. He feels it crawling along his skin, snapping across his teeth, brightening his eyes, rippling up and down his spine.

 

He tips his head back, exhales. He lets go.

 

* * *

“Dorian?”

 

Dorian stirs, opens his eyes, squints to make out Bull’s form, hovering over him in the dark. He can’t see the smile that perks Bull’s mouth, but he knows it’s there.

 

“Hey. There he is. Hey, kadan.”

 

“Bull,” he murmurs, lifting a hand a tracing his fingertips along his husband’s jaw. “I love you, darling.”

 

“Aw. Thanks, big guy.” A kiss finds his mouth, soft and chaste. “I love you, too. You okay?”

 

“Yes. I was in the Fade.”

 

“Yeah, I figured. You make this real cute little squeaky noise when you’re there.”

 

Dorian huffs, slaps a hand against his broad chest. “I do not.”

 

“You do.” Bull snuggles in against him, drawing Dorian against his body. “You also kick me a crap ton. But, I mean, you do that all the time, so.”

 

“I do _not_ ,” Dorian says, but he giggles against Bull’s mouth, lets his husband hold him close. They should talk—he knows they should—about what just happened. The spirits know Ataashi by _name_. They are hunting him. Yearning. They know Dorian can give them access.

 

But he doesn’t want to talk. He wants to lay here in Bull’s arms, wants to just let Bull kiss him. He pushes on Bull’s shoulders, and his husband rolls onto his back, grinning up at him when Dorian straddles his hips.

 

“You’re beautiful,” Bull croons, settling huge, warm hands on his spread thighs. Dorian leans down to kiss him. “Fuck. You’re gorgeous, Dorian. I love you. I love you so damn much, kadan.”

 

“Amatus,” Dorian whispers into his mouth, and Bull’s hands squeeze his hips. “Lay back, love. Let me take care of you.”

 

“Sure,” Bull replies, grinning widely. “Whatever you want.”

 

“Mm, no. Whatever _you_ want.” Dorian noses Bull’s chin up, bites at his bared throat, tastes Bull’s groan beneath his lips. “What do you want?”

 

“Fuck,” Bull breathes, running his hands up Dorian’s sides, fingers tripping along his ribs, and Dorian shudders. “Why don’t you—”

 

They freeze when someone knocks at the door. Dorian sighs and slides off Bull’s lap, leaving one last lingering kiss on his lips before standing and pulling on a pair of leggings. He’s not at all surprised when he opens the door and finds Ashi hovering in the hall.

 

“Hello, imekari,” he murmurs, dropping to one knee and stroking his son’s hair. “What’s wrong, darling?”

 

“Had a nightmare,” Ashi says. He squeezes his stuffed dragon to his chest.

 

“Would you like to stay with us?”

 

Ashi bites his lower lip. “Are you gonna tell Felix?”

 

Dorian chuckles, gathers his son into his arms. “No. It’ll be our secret.” He carries the qunlet to the bed, dropping him into Bull’s lap, and Ashi squeals and giggles when Bull sets to work tickling him.

 

“Tam, cut it out!”

 

“Huh? What’s that? Dorian, you hear something?”

 

“Not a thing,” Dorian says, sliding back into the bed and resting his head on Bull’s shoulder.

 

“Ta- _aaam_! Tam, stop, it _tickles_!”

 

Bull chuckles, releasing his son and letting him slot himself into the warm space between his parents. Bull drops the stuffed dragon on his face and Ashi giggles, pushing it up over his head.

 

“Ashi,” Dorian says, running a thumb over one little horn, “were you in the Fade?”

 

Ashi shakes his head, batting Dorian’s hand away. “No, Papa. Just dreaming. Normal-like. Mae wanted to make me into a stew.”

 

Bull muffles a snort behind his hand, shrugging when Dorian shoots him a withering look. “That’s, uh—that sounds scary, kiddo.”

 

“It was,” Ashi says, nodding solemnly. “And then she—uh.”

 

Dorian arches an eyebrow, following Ashi’s gaze, and chuckles at the sight of his other imekari hovering in the doorway. “Felix. Are you alright?”

 

Felix shrugs—his own dragon is held against his chest, after the amount of fighting they did, it was clear that two toys were needed—and scuffs a bare foot against the floor. “I just. Uh. I felt kinda. Um.”

 

“No one’s leaving you out, imekari,” Bull says, and beckons to him. “Get up here.”

 

Felix beams and hurries across the room, leaping into Bull’s lap and giggling when Bull ruffles his thick curls. Dorian scoots across the bed, making more room, and smiles when both of his imekari settle in, pushing against one another to make space.

 

“Ashi, _move_ —”

 

“Felix, _don’t_ —”

 

“Hey, hey, none of that,” Bull says, and reaches across them to loop an arm around Dorian’s shoulders. He tugs, and they all get pulled toward him, until they are pressed one up against the other, the children squirming, Dorian laughing. “There’s my boys. Settle in, fellas.”

 

“Ew, Tam, you _stink_ —”

 

“ _You_ stink.”

 

“Do not!”

 

“Yup. You stink the _worst_.”

 

“Yeah, Felix, the worst.”

 

“I do _not!_ ”

 

Bull’s hand shifts, settles on Dorian’s face. Dorian looks up and finds his husband smiling, deepening the crow’s feet that have become more pronounced by his eye, and Dorian thinks that he’s never looked so handsome. He kisses his fingertips and reaches across their quarreling children, trailing a gentle touch across Bull’s lips. Mouths “love you,” and Bull grasps his wrist and kisses his palm.

 

The boys doze off after a while, and Bull nods off after them, all three snoring. Ashi kicks and turns over, snuggling into Dorian’s chest, squeezing his dragon tight.

 

Dorian can’t sleep. His heart is too full. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Kos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kos-- natural energy, especially spirit or nature magic.

Dorian stares. Josephine bites her lip and drops his gaze, twiddling her thumbs instead. The missive from Maeveris sits open on her desk, haunting and horrible. 

“No,” Dorian groans at length, sinking back in his chair. “Oh, _no_.”

“We can arrange for you to be gone from Skyhold,” Josie says gently, but he’s already shaking his head.

“How’s it going to look when the scion of house Pavus scuttles away from a Tevinter delegation?” He sighs and rubs his forehead. He catches a ring on his hair and tugs it free with a grunt, eyes widening when he pulls away a single silver hair. That’s his _fourth_ gray. He’ll have to have Bull check him again. The great lug does it willingly enough, but never without a little snorting.

“The children, then? And Bull, his tamassran?”

“The delegation will be here for—what? A few weeks at least, I presume. I’ve never been away from the children for so long.” That part isn’t a lie—he’s stopped leaving Skyhold ever since Ataashi started Dreaming. His place is here, with his husband and his little ones. With Ataashi, who needs him now more than ever. The lie—they would probably be fine without him for a little while. But he can’t face Tevinter without Bull. Can’t.

Josie reaches across her desk, places her hands on his. “Dorian, tell me what I can do.”

He offers her a smile and pulls his hands free, but gives one of hers a somewhat awkward pat. “There’s nothing to be done, Josephine. I shall endure. Let _me_ know what I can do to help.”

Her responding smile is more than a little weary. “I don’t remember a thing about Tevinter table settings.”

He laughs. He pretends he’s going to be fine. Maybe she believes him.

* * *

 

 He opens the door to their quarters and has to stop for a moment to recover from the pure _shock_. It’s a disaster zone—it looks like a damn dragon came through. The floor is covered with bedsheets, apparently to catch droplets of paint— though they have caught _oceans_. The walls are decorated with brightly clashing colors, with dragons and giants and a particularly poor rendering of Evelyn standing on top of a dragon’s skull, sword upraised (undoubtedly Bull’s work, if the truly garish color palette is anything to go by).

Dorian is still standing in the doorway, open-mouthed, panning around the room, when he hears a grunt, and Bull sits up. He’s sprawled across the couch, two sleeping children on his chest—Stroud and Ataashi. Felix hangs upside-down off the other end of the couch.

“Hey,” Bull says, rubbing his eye, and offers Dorian a smile. “What did Josephine want?”

“What,” Dorian says weakly, taking a step into the room. “ _What_.”

“We were, uh—painting.”

“I can _see_ that.”

Bull winces. “And we, uh—we might have gotten a _little_ carried away.”

“I was gone an _hour_.”

“Most of this happened in, like, five minutes,” Bull chuckles, executing a few impressive maneuvers to get himself out from beneath sleeping children. He settles them back down on the couch, pausing to stroke Ashi’s hair before straightening again. He cracks his back loudly. “It happened so _fast,_ Dorian. I didn’t know what to do.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow and gestures feebly at the painting of Evelyn.

“Er. Well. You know the old adage. If you can’t beat ‘em—“

“Enable them?”

“…Is that how it goes?”

Dorian sighs and steps in fully, closes the door behind him. “You will, of course, be cleaning this up.”

“Of course,” Bull parrots, and steps around the couch with arms held wide. “Want a hug?”

“No,” Dorian says, eyeing the bright splashes of green paint down Bull’s front. “These are nice robes.” Bull takes a step forward, and Dorian steps back until his ass hits the door. “ _Bull_ ,” he warns.

Bull grins, lunges, and Dorian stifles a shriek when he’s caught up against a broad chest, struggling even as Bull picks him up with a peal of laughter.

“Vishante kaffas, _Bull!_ ”

“Hey,” Bull chuckles, hugging him close, and after another moment of fervent fighting, Dorian relaxes a touch, grumbling. “Don’t sweat it. You look great in green.”

“I look great in _everything_ ,” Dorian whines, and lets his head rest against a strong pectoral.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bull says, rubbing his back, and presses his cheek to the top of Dorian’s head. “Mm.”

“Yes?” 

“Nothing. Just feels good. Holding you.”

Dorian’s throat tightens, choking off his salted reply, and he slips his arms around Bull’s waist. Maker. He can’t even be mad about the paint now. Bull is so—

He stops, narrows his eyes. He tilts his head back to frown up at his husband. “Did you say that just so I would let the paint thing drop?” 

Bull quirks his lopsided grin. “Kadan. I would _never_.”

Dorian rolls his eyes, pouting, and lets Bull draw him onto his tiptoes for a kiss. “You are insufferable.”

“Yeah,” Bull chuckles against his mouth, and Dorian sighs when a warm tongue caresses his lower lip, “but you love me.” 

“But of course. Now please kiss me properly before the children wake."

Bull laughs and sweeps Dorian up into a bridal carry, and Dorian kisses him all the way to their room. At some point, he will have to tell his husband that their happiness and quiet are about to be interrupted by an entire delegation of Tevinter magisters.

But not now.

 

* * *

 

 Three days before the delegation is due to arrive, the energy around Skyhold is—frenetic. Bull would go with ‘nug-shit crazy,’ but Dorian would go with ‘frenetic.’ Fancier. Bull sits on the stairway that leads up to Skyhold’s main hall, watching people scurrying this way and that, trying to make ready for one of the most important diplomatic affairs they’ve undertaken at the castle since—well, shit. Normally, Evelyn just hikes out to whichever fancypants need wooing. They haven’t entertained hardly anyone since Corypheus fell.

Something hits him in the back, and an elven serving girl goes tumbling backwards literally over his horns, landing in his lap with a startled squeak. The chair she’d been carrying rolls down the staircase and lands in the grass.

“Whoops,” Bull chuckles, helping her to her feet. “Sorry about that.”

“Bull, dear,” Dorian huffs, materializing out of nowhere—as he is wont to do, when festivities are to be arranged—and plucking the chair up off the ground. He hefts it over one broad shoulder, waving off the girl’s offers to take it, and she scampers away, cheeks furiously crimson. “If you aren’t going to help, at least don’t be a hindrance.”

“Hey, I’m helping,” Bull says, defensive. He gets to his feet and tags along at Dorian’s heels. He has to resist the urge to grab Dorian’s ass, which looks particularly cute and perky when he’s doing heavy lifting. (And carrying around a chair, for Dorian, is heavy lifting.) “I’m helping you by keeping the imekari out from underfoot.” 

Dorian arches his eyebrows and pointedly glances around. “By—what, shipping them off to Kirkwall? Banishing them to the Fade?"

“First off, don't even joke about that. Second—alright, they’re with Krem. Who, by the way, is less than excited about all this.” 

“In stark contrast to me, of course, because I am positively _leaping_ out of my smallclothes with glee.”

Bull takes the chair when Dorian makes a show of shifting it to his other shoulder. “You and Krem left Tevinter under pretty different circumstances.” 

“And I don’t think anyone expects him to make nice with any visiting magisters. He should feel to spend the entire time hiding in the tavern being loud and rude,” Dorian quips. “I, on the other hand, am expected to—ugh— _socialize_ with these pompous peacocks.”

“You know anyone who’s coming?”

Dorian sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, groaning when he realizes he’s messed up his perfect coif. “I recognize a few names from the manifest Maeveris sent. She’ll be coming herself, of course. Says she misses the little ones.”

Bull smiles. Mae had graced them with her presence for four months before being forced to return to Tevinter to oversee a vote that was of particular interest to the Lucerni. It’s only been two months since she left, but Bull misses the hell out of her. 

“Good. It’ll be nice to have her around again. Can she stay?”

“I hope so. The Magisterium is out of session now.” Dorian doesn’t add the other thought that’s undoubtedly banging around in his head—the fact that their qunlet is still Dreaming, despite Mae and Dorian trying every herb, spell, amulet, and ward they could dig up in that dusty old library. Mae had left with the promise to search around in the archives in Minrathous. Dorian had thanked her, but he hadn’t looked terribly optimistic. 

Bull gives his head a shake. There’s a time and a place to worry about that. Right this second, the sun is high and bright overhead, and he and his husband are walking side by side through Skyhold. Bull takes Dorian’s hand and gives it a squeeze. Dorian smiles up at him.

“What?” 

“Nothing. Just love you, is all.”

Dorian laughs, and Bull loves that the sound still makes his stomach turn over. “Oh, is that all? Such a trifling little thing, being in love.”

“Don’t sass me, mage boy,” Bull chuckles. “You want to carry the chair again?”

“Maker, no. These are my favorite leathers, and sweat will absolutely ruin them.”

“Uh huh, that’s what I thought.”

They traipse across the grounds, swinging their clasped hands, and Dorian fills the air with his easy chatter. He’s somewhere between nervous and excited—probably some hot mix of both—and Bull lets him talk. As they head for the stables, Bull surveys the grounds. It warms his heart to see all the folks who have gathered in Skyhold. He hears Sera cackling from somewhere over his head—presumably she’s running all over the battlements with Dagna, setting up traps for unsuspecting magisters. Blackwall—Thom, Bull corrects himself—hovers by one of the merchant stalls with a tentative hand on his girl’s lower back while she ogles a pendant, the same elf girl he’d managed to woo a few years before. Bull’s pretty sure her name is Sylvin. She’s Dalish, the last of her clan—the rest, Bull knows, were slain by demons during Corypheus’s reign of terror.

“I think he’s going to propose.”

“What?” Bull looks down at Dorian. “Who?”

“Thom,” Dorian replies, nodding toward the couple. “It’s been—what, two years? About time they settled down.”

Bull chuckles, stroking the back of Dorian’s hand with his thumb. “You’re just marriage-happy.”

“Happily married? Quite. But marriage-happy? Please, Bull. I’m invested in no one’s happiness but my own, thank you very much.”

“Aw,” Bull coos, bending down to press a kiss to Dorian’s temple. “You’re happy.”

“Amatus, was there ever a doubt?” Dorian raises an eyebrow when Bull stops, watching his husband pan around the grounds. “What?”

“Looking for an empty room or something. Bed someone tossed out—hell, any somewhat vertical surface’ll do.”

Dorian rolls his eyes and takes the chair, shooting Bull a sultry smile. “Come on, love. We have chairs to set up, tables to put out…”

“Asses to fondle,” Bull sing-songs, and Dorian explodes into giggles when his husband chases him the rest of the way to the stables.

By nightfall, the grounds are transformed; colorful tents (some just as atrocious as Bull’s pants) provide shade in the grass, and visiting vendors have gathered from all over the south to hawk wares to the fortress’ wealthy visitors. A handful of bards have showed up, many associates of Maryden.

“Hey—Iron Bull. Right?”

Bull turns, arms laden with a torn tent, and barks a laugh. “Hey there! Marianne! Glad you made it, finally.”

The trader steps right up to him and hugs his side, patting him heartily on the back. “Me too. Good place, this. Thanks for pointing me in the right direction.”

“No problem. Soil’s pretty good here.”

Marianne quirks her head, stepping back. “What?”

“Good for, you know. Putting down roots.”

Her face breaks into a grin, and she laughs and slaps his arm. “Good one. Hey, where’s that pretty ‘Vint of yours?”

“Around. Doing Dorian things.” Bull’s about to say more, but he’s cut short when something bounces off the back of his good leg. He pivots, carefully, and looks down, chuckling to find Stroud sitting on her butt behind him, face completely obscured by her father’s helmet. “Well, hey there.”

The little girl grunts, using his brace to haul herself to her feet, and tips her head back to look at him. She pushes back the visor of the helmet and beams. “Hi, Bull!”

“One of yours?” Marianne asks, leaning over to look at the child, and Stroud hides behind Bull’s leg. 

“Nah. This is the Inquisitor’s kid. Hey, imekari, you better be careful running around with that helmet on. Big strong warrior like you, you’d probably knock down an elf.” 

Stroud giggles and buries her face against his leg. “Not me! I’m careful.”

He grunts and bends down to pat the top of the helmet. “Sure you are. Have you seen Felix and Ataashi? I’d like them to meet my friend here.”

“They’re with Auntie Ma’am.”

“Oh, for…” Dorian strides up behind her, eyebrows raised, and gives Bull a pointed look. “Hear that, Bull? Auntie Ma’am.”

Bull grins and shrugs, sheepish. “Old habits.”

“Indeed,” Dorian snorts, and side-steps him to greet Marianne. Bull lifts Stroud onto his shoulder, holding her there with one burly arm wrapped around her legs. She dutifully grabs hold of his horn and kicks her feet.

“I’ll go collect the little ones, then,” Dorian says, bouncing onto his tiptoes to kiss Bull’s cheek. “Shall I invite Vivienne to dinner?”

“Hell yeah. Make sure she knows I’m the one cooking.”

Dorian huffs, but he smiles and steals a last quick kiss before heading off, a bounce in his step. Bull watches him go, heart aching with fondness, before he looks back at Marianne.

“Dinner sound good?”

She grins back at him, tossing a curl of dark hair out of her eyes. “Dinner sounds great.”

It takes a little while, of course, to wrangle three kids to the table, and a little while longer for Bull to whip up something worth eating, during which time Tama entertains the little ones, and Dorian and Vivienne delight Marianne with talk of Skyhold’s most eligible bachelors and most palatable vintages.

“If you don’t have to slip Cabot a few extra coins, it’s not worth drinking,” Dorian says, and Vivienne nods solemnly. “Additionally, if Bull offers it to you, it’s not only worthless but possibly dangerous for your health.”

“Hey,” Bull says, mock-hurt, and bypasses Dorian to hand Vivienne and Marianne their plates instead. “No duck for you.”

“Bull, that awful swill from Par Vollen could take the paint off Cullen’s armor—and I’m hungry,” Dorian whines.

“Cost you a kiss.”

“Ridiculous! No one else had to pay a toll. It’s because I’m from Tevinter, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” Bull says, nodding. “Vints don’t eat free around here, even cute ones.”

Dorian grins and gets to his feet, cupping a hand around Bull’s neck to pull him in for a kiss. Stroud and Felix, on cue, make loud retching noises. Bull raises a middle finger at them both until Dorian slaps his hand down, affronted.

“Honestly,” he grumbles, but the smile he shoots Bull over his shoulder is dazzling.

Bull finishes serving up the rest of the food—he’s done a damn good job this time, if he says so himself—and takes a seat between Tama and Dorian, looking back and forth between his kids and his husband, surrounded by the people who love them. Lately—for the last few years, really—his heart feels to big for his chest. He puts a hand beneath the table and touches Dorian’s knee, and a moment later, Dorian’s hand slips into his, squeezing his fingers tight. Bull feels magic warm his palm, and glances down, grins when he sees that Dorian’s cheeks have gone pink.

“I love that about you,” Bull says later that night, draped lazily across their bed, watching Dorian undress.

Dorian glances back at him as he slides his robes down his shoulders, and oh, isn’t that a pretty sight. He’s gorgeous, too beautiful for words. Bull doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve a guy like this. “There is so much about me to love, amatus. Do be more specific.” 

Bull grins and cradles his chin in his palm, propping himself up on his elbows. “The way you lose control of your magic when you’re really happy.”

“Oh.” There, again, a flush to Dorian’s face, and he lowers his eyes. In the firelight, his lashes cast dark shadows across his cheeks. “As I recall, it used to upset you.”

“Yeah. Maybe at first. I’m glad I came around. It’s really beautiful, you know. Your magic, and the way you use it.” Bull sits up, waving a hand, and Dorian joins him by the bed, lets Bull carefully remove the buckles of his leathers. Bull leans in close, kisses a path up the exposed skin of Dorian’s chest, exhales softly against the side of his neck. Dorian hums and tilts his head, body going lax beneath Bull’s caressing hands. “Never thought I would love it so much, but I do.” 

Dorian’s eyes darken. He flicks a hand at the fireplace, and Bull chuckles when the flames go out. A moment later, he goes silent—little golden lights flicker to life at Dorian’s fingertips, illuminating the soft, reverent touches he places against Bull’s chest. 

“Dorian,” Bull murmurs, voice tight, and pulls the mage down. They kiss firmly, deeply, Dorian’s arms winding around his neck, Bull’s around his waist, pressed together so Bull can feel Dorian’s heartbeat thudding in the space between them. 

* * *

 

Ataashi dreams.

He’s in his family’s quarters, seated at their table. He sighs and looks around, waits. Scratches at the base of one little horn. His horns just broke the skin a few months ago. Tam had looked so proud. They apply horn balm every morning together, while Papa watches with a smile. 

“Hello?” he says, raising his voice. Normally, the denizens of the Fade approach him. They’re usually nice. He hasn’t met a demon in a long time—not since the first night he dreamed. 

He hears voices then—laughter from another room. He slides down from his chair and heads for the door to Papa and Tam’s room. Pauses before the door, hesitating, before pushing it open. He steps through and emerges in a garden.

Ashi stops in his tracks, gaping, turning his head this way and that to take in the scene before him. The heat is intense—dry, and he feels his horns itching. White stones mark winding paths through small groves of trees; flowers of every color and description, flowers he’s never seen, sway in a warm breeze. Ashi glances over his shoulder, but the room behind him is not contained within Skyhold’s stone walls. It seems to be a sort of parlor—decadent, dappled with sunlight, so much white and gold.

For some reason, he shivers.

At a loss, he steps outside and closes the door behind him. He still hears voices, and shapes blur in and out of focus, washed out in the sun. He jogs a little to catch up with one and realizes they’re elves—clad in simple clothes, eyes downturned. They walk quickly and quietly, and say little, even to one another. 

“Hello?” he says, reaching for a girl, but she walks through him. Ashi scratches one of his horns and moves on.

He follows one of the stone paths through the garden, pausing only to examine the flowers. He doesn’t see any elfroot. The sound of laughter grows louder ahead, and he rounds the corner to see a gazebo nestled among the trees, shielded from the sun. A group of people are seated around a table, laughing, plucking delicate little cakes from a platter in front of them and slipping wine from crystalline flutes.

Ataashi approaches cautiously, tongue in cheek. The people don’t seem to see him. They’re all attractive, more or less—they look healthy, well-fed. They’re all men, save for the beautiful woman on the arm of one. She is smiling, albeit thinly, her eyes guarded. Her hair falls in a dark cascade around her shoulders, several shades darker than her sun-kissed skin. The man to whom she clings is handsome and smiling, his hair swept back off his brow. Someone makes a comment and he laughs loudly, thumbing his prominent nose. 

They look familiar, both of them, in a way Ashi can’t quite describe.

“The other day,” the man says, and Ashi jumps. Their voices have been muted, fuzzy—now he hears with impossible clarity. “The poor little lad, what was it—he just meant to wash that hound of his.”

“Dreadful beast,” the woman says, and her partner smiles and pats her hand. 

“Now, now, dearest, it comforts him. Anyway, he tries to wash the dog in that pond, just over there—but we’ve never had him taught water magic, of course.”

“Why would you?” another man snorts, and they all share a chuckle.

“Yes, quite. He thinks to try it anyway, though, curious creature that he is, and—Aquinea, how did it go?”

The woman—Aquinea—sniffs and sips her wine. “The beast shoved him in.”

“Yes! Hit the back of his legs and knocked him into the pond.” The man is laughing now, and his companions chuckle politely. “The poor darling comes in all in a fuss, quite petulant, really.” He sighs and leans back, offering Aquinea—his wife, Ashi thinks—a small, sad smile. “He does lack a strong constitution. I worry about him.” 

She purses her lips. “He’s just a child, Halward.”

“The holidays are nearly over, yes?” someone asks. Ashi doesn’t notice the speaker—he is watching Aquinea, the way her eyes narrow and dart around the table, like she’s waiting for an assailant. “Will he be returning to school?”

“Yes, just two weeks from now. Back to the Circle with the boy.”

“This is his second already, isn’t it?” another man inquires, and suddenly the table is doused in chilly silence.

Halward lowers his wine glass—very, very slowly—and Aquinea stiffens. “Yes. As it happens. It is. And what of it?”

“I—” The man falters. “And nothing of it, of course. The Circles are all unique. No matter if the first is a poor fit. It—I meant nothing by it, Magister, I assure you.”

“Of course,” Halward replies. His voice is cool, steady. It entirely lacks the laughter from mere moments before. “Of course. Come, Valus, another glass of wine?”

They resume conversation—a decidedly different topic. After a moment, Aquinea excuses herself, kisses Halward’s temple, and gets to her feet. She leaves the gazebo behind, setting off further down the stone path, and Ashi decides to follow.

She heads into the deeper recesses of the garden. The landscaping is less defined her, and the plants grow freely. She pauses at a wilting flower bed and waves a hand across it; the flowers glow, faintly, and their petals spread, the blooms straightening. Ashi’s stomach turns over. He knows that magic. He has felt it himself, with his hands pressed into a bed of elfroot. Magic Papa taught him. He looks up at the woman, studying the shape of her lips, the color and texture of her hair, the angle of her eyes.

And, as if on cue, she pauses by a tree, tilts her head back, and smiles. “Hello, Dorian.”

The branches rustle, a few leaves fluttering to the ground. Ashi jumps when a child swings down from the tree, frowning and holding onto the branch with his legs, dangling upside-down in front of the smiling woman.

“How’d you know?”

She laughs, tapping a fingertip against his nose. “You can’t fool your mother. Come down from there.”

Papa—just a boy, no older than Ashi himself—huffs and hauls himself up right before dropping to the ground, pausing to smooth his tunic. His dark hair is wavy and full of leaves. Aquinea giggles and drops to her knees, patting away the dirt and wrinkles from his clothes, arranging his hair.

“Mama,” he says, pouting, and flinches away when she licks her thumb and rubs at his cheek. “Ew!”

“Oh, hush,” she scolds, but there is no heat to it, and she is still smiling. She cups his face in her hands and kisses his forehead. “Darling, have you packed your things?” 

“Yes,” he replies sullenly, scowling as she returns to fixing his hair. “Everything but my books.”

“Good. Then I wonder if you’d breakfast with your mother?” 

He wrinkles his nose. “It’s nearly noon.” 

“Yes,” she says, and gets to her feet, taking his hand, “but someone was too busy playing in trees to eat this morning, hm?”

He grins and shrugs, and she laughs as she leads him back down the path. Ashi watches them go, his heart full, his throat aching for reasons he can’t place. And then something changes—the sun dims, and the wind turns chilly. Ashi braces himself, squinting against the gale. Someone is running back up the path—turns the corner, and Papa emerges before him again, a man grown. He doesn’t have a mustache; as he walks, he tears his way out of his heavy robes and musses a hand through his hair. He reaches under his tunic and pulls out an amulet, the entwined snakes that Ashi recognizes as the sigil of House Pavus. Papa gives it a hard tug, breaking the chain that keeps it around his neck, and for a moment rears back as if to throw it into the trees—and falters, arm held high over his head, before snarling and tucking it into a pouch at his belt.

“Dorian!”

Papa turns, fists clenched, and takes a step back when Aquinea rounds the corner. Her eyes are wide, face pale, her hair decidedly unkempt.

“Don’t,” he snaps, backing away again when she reaches for him. “Don’t touch me.”

“Dorian,” she says, pleading. “Dorian, love, please—”

“Did you know about this?!”

“No—no, darling, I swear, I—”

“He killed her! That elf—he—he was going to—”

“I know,” she says, and sobs, reaching for him, and this time he lets her take his hands and squeeze them in her own. “Dorian, I’m sorry, I’m so—”

“Stop!” he shouts, and wrenches his hands free. He turns his back on her, raking his hands through his hair. His lower lip trembles, and he bites down on it for a moment before turning back to her. “I have to go.”

“Please. Please, Dorian, don’t do this.”

“He meant to use _blood magic!_ To _change_ me! He would have made me a vacant, obedient—”

“He would never go so far, Dorian, you know this, you know him!”

He laughs, bitter, empty, and shakes his head. “I’m leaving.”

“Where in the Maker’s name are you going to go? Dorian, come back inside, let’s talk about this, let’s—”

“I’m not staying,” he snaps, and jerks away from the hand she pus on his shoulder. “I’ll go—I’ll stay with Rilienus, he’ll—we’ll—” He stops, struggling, and his next words break on a sob. “How _could he_?”

“Oh, Dorian,” Aquinea murmurs, and this time he lets her enclose him in her arms, lets her press his face into her shoulder. “Oh, dearest. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Shh, shh…”

“—Shh, imekari. It’s alright. Come back now. I’m here.”

Ataashi jerks awake and finds himself restrained. He fights for a moment, panicked, before inhaling sharply—recognizes Papa’s cologne. He stops, breathing hard, realizes there are tears on his cheeks. He presses his face into Papa’s shoulder to hide them, and Papa’s arms tighten around him.

“Are you with me, little one?”

“Yes,” Ashi says, voice muffled. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I was…”

“I know. I know, imekari.” Papa rests his cheek against the crown of Ashi’s head, rocking him gently, rubbing his back. “It’s over. You’re alright now.”

“Yeah.” Ashi sighs, lifts his head, lets Papa wipe at his face. “Is it morning already?”

“Nearly sunrise.”

“I woke you up?”

“No—I was up anyway. I just thought I’d look in on you.” Papa smiles, stroking Ashi’s hair. “I’m glad I did. Do you want to talk about your dream?”

Ashi considers, looking down at his lap. He wants to ask about the elf who died—why Halward Pavus killed her. What he meant to do, meant to change. But Papa’s hand is warm and steady atop his head, and—well, Ashi’s stomach growls. Papa laughs, scooping him under one arm and hugging him tight. 

“Never mind, then. Later, perhaps, hm? In the meanwhile, would you breakfast with your father?”

Ashi’s throat tightens, but he swallows the ache away and nods, putting on his best smile. “Do we have more of those sweet rolls that Tam made?”

“If your brother hasn’t eaten them all behind our backs.” Papa gets to his feet and offers a hand, which Ashi takes. Squeezes, hard, and Papa smiles down at him. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” Ashi tilts his head back, looking up at his father. He doesn’t have to look up as far, now, as he did even a few months before. “Are you?”

Papa blinks, looking surprised, and laughs a little. “Of course I am. How could I be anything but?” He smiles, and his hand tightens around Ashi’s. “After all, imekari, I have you.”


	5. Shanedan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shanedan- "I'll hear you."

Bull lies awake, head pillowed on his folded hands, and watches Dorian at the vanity. Watches Dorian wet and comb his hair back, lean in to carefully line his eyes with kohl, apply just the finest layer of powder to each lid. He shapes his mustache last, pauses to smooth down the patch of hair beneath his lip, and slumps before his mirror with a quiet sigh.

“Hey,” Bull murmurs, and Dorian turns to look at him. “Come here.”

Dorian gets to his feet, crosses their room. He eases back into the bed, eyes running up and down Bull’s naked form. Smiles when Bull’s large hand rests on his thigh. “I just made myself appropriately gorgeous.”

“I want to fuck you,” Bull says, tenderly. It is tantamount to a declaration of love, something known. Dorian leans down to claim his mouth and guides Bull’s hand between his legs, exhaling shakily against his lips when Bull touches him. 

“Oh,” he breathes, lifting his head to kiss up Bull’s nose, across his brow. “Bull—love—”

“C’mere,” Bull says roughly, grasping his hips. “Wanna get my mouth on you. Feel you get hard on my tongue.” 

“ _Oh_ ,” Dorian groans, and hurries to straddle Bull’s head.

They tease an hour away, all shared breath and touches that linger across heated skin. Bull tastes something like fear on Dorian’s lips and tries to kiss it away. He spreads the mage across their bed and works him open, fingers and tongue, and Dorian cries out when Bull slides into him at last. 

“Gonna take care of you, kadan,” Bull whispers into Dorian’s hair. Pushes his hips forward, and Dorian moans for him, fingers scrabbling until Bull’s hands cover his. “No matter who shows today, no matter what anyone says to you, what they think—gonna bring you back home. Make dinner for you and the kids. Bring you right back here, to our bed, make love to you, just like this. Hold onto you, kiss you to sleep. Huh?” He presses his mouth to Dorian’s bare shoulder, tastes his skin. “Tell me what you need, baby.” 

“You,” Dorian says brokenly. Twists around, tilts his head back, so they can kiss desperately. “You, amatus, just you.” 

“Yeah,” Bull says softly, and kisses Dorian back down against the bed, resituates his hips to push into him a little deeper, a little slower. Dorian opens beautifully around him, gasping wetly into the pillows. Bull wants to watch him like this forever. “Yeah. There you go. Shh, kadan. Shh. I’ve got you. You’re alright, Dorian. I love you.” 

Once they’re both spent, Bull bathes—rather, sits in the tub and lets Dorian wash him, and only interrupts twice with deep kisses that have Dorian whimpering against his mouth. 

“We should go away for a bit, after this,” Bull muses, seated on their bed again, watching Dorian carefully apply his vitaar. Dorian’s built up a good resistance; he can use his fingertips to apply it now, no problem. His touch is thorough, practiced. The designs he creates are stunning in their symmetry. “Take the kids. Go down to the Hinterlands, maybe? Teach ‘em to ride horses.” He pauses, considering, and adds, “Maybe see if there’s a house we like.” 

Dorian stops and looks up at him. “A house?”

“Yeah. Not saying we should leave Skyhold, but—I don’t know. Could be nice, having a place to escape to. Place to get away and just be together. Like the villa, you know?” He shrugs, lowering his gaze. “Dunno. Kids could have their own rooms. We could have a garden. And, uh, a bigger kitchen, maybe. Big enough, maybe I could figure out how to make some of those fancy Tevinter dishes you miss so much, and…”

He breaks off when Dorian climbs into his lap and kisses him. Pushes him back against their bed, kisses his way down Bull’s chest, laughs into his belly. They have each other one more time. 

“Yes, amatus,” Dorian says afterward, smiling and tucking them both back into their clothes. “Yes. I’d like it very much.”

The smile on his face—it looks like the one he wore when Bull proposed. Bull gets to his feet and pulls Dorian into his arms, holds him. Dorian holds him too, hands gentle on his back, breath soft and warm against his collar. 

“You remember what I said today,” Bull says, running his palm up and down Dorian’s back. Pauses at the highest point to stroke a blunt thumb across the soft cropped hairs at Dorian’s nape. “No matter what shit goes down. You’re coming back here tonight. This is your home.”

“As it is yours, love,” Dorian reminds him, and Bull smiles into their kiss.

They wake the kids, coax them out of bed with promises of breakfast. Bull cooks, borrowing a little of Dorian’s magic to fry ham and potatoes and onions together. He cracks a layer of eggs over the top and lets them brown a little before ladling food onto four plates. Dorian wets a comb and attacks Felix’s thick curls. Bull takes a seat beside Ataashi and reaches out to pat the top of his head.

“Morning, kiddo. How’d you sleep?”

Ashi shrugs one shoulder, picking at his eggs idly, cheek pillowed on his fist. Bull frowns, running a hand over his son’s hair. It’s getting longer; its kinks and tight curls are emerging. He needs braids, Bull thinks, or plaits. Keep it out of his way. He leans down and kisses the child’s head, ignoring the squirming and the whined “ _Tam_.” 

The kids eat; Bull and Dorian both pretend at it. He’s hungry, but Bull can’t quite quell the churning in his stomach. Dorian manages a few bites before pushing his plate away, nursing his tea instead. His fingers shake a little.

“Hey,” Bull says at length, looking at the imekari. Felix looks up, spoon halfway to his mouth. Ashi’s eyes stay downturned. “You guys know what to do today, yeah?” 

“Stay out of everyone’s way,” Felix says at once, through a mouthful of egg. Dorian frowns at him, and the child chews and swallows before speaking again. “And don’t talk to magisters.” 

“You gonna tell them your name?”

“Nope.”

Bull looks purposefully at Ashi. “You gonna tell ‘em that you’re a mage?”

“No,” the boy replies sullenly.

“What are you gonna do if they try to talk to you? Or if they scare you, or bug you?”

“Come tell you or Papa or Auntie Evelyn.”

“You gonna try and talk to Mae while she’s around magisters?”

“No.”

“Why can’t we talk to them?” Felix pipes up. “They’re Tevinter. I’m Tevinter, Papa’s Tevinter. What’s the problem?”

Dorian and Bull share a look. Bull is suddenly acutely aware of how bizarre they are—a magister’s son who wears a Tal-Vashoth mercenary’s dragon tooth around his neck, the Vashoth kid and child of a Venatori mage who was nearly a blood sacrifice. All living together under the same roof, trying to make it work. 

Dorian—sensing his thoughts, as he does—grins. “Varric couldn’t have come up with a more ridiculous story, surely.”

Bull chuckles. He looks at Felix. “It’s pretty complicated, kiddo. We can talk about it later. Okay?” 

Felix shrugs. “Okay.” He resumes wolfing down as much food as he can, and that’s the end of it.

* * *

Felix has no intention of breaking his promise to Papa and Tam. He’s not going to talk to any strangers, but no one said anything about _looking_. He sits on the tavern roof, Auntie Sera’s favorite spot, and watches open-mouthed as a stream of horses and carriages comes in through the front gates of Skyhold. The horses are bedecked in crimson, their bridles studded with rubies, gold thread braided into their black manes. Their riders wear sleek gold armor, swords strapped to their belts, flags bearing different crests held aloft, fluttering in the breeze. The carriages move silently on metal wheels; house sigils, brightly colored, decorate the doors. A ridiculous amount of wagons bring up the rear, pulled by massive farm horses, laden down with chests and crates and a few cages with animals Felix has never seen before. 

“What the shite, eh?”

He turns, grins as Sera plops down next to him. “Hey, are magisters real important?”

“Yep! They have the fanciest of all the fancy britches.”

“What do they do?”

“Oh, you know—point their fingers, say ‘Do this’ and ‘Sod that,’ shit gold, sip sip fancy tea, the like.” She pinches his cheek. “Why don’t you ask your da?” 

Felix shakes his head. “Papa doesn’t want to talk about the Imperium.” 

“Bug you, then?” 

“Well, I’m from there, after all.” 

“Nah, Flix, you’re from here,” she says sagely, and wraps an arm around his shoulders. “We’re all from here now.”

“Sera,” he says, tilting his head to look at her, “what do you suppose my mother was like?”

Her big eyes blink at him, taken aback. She wrinkles her nose, and her freckles are a moving tapestry across her cheeks. “Hm. Well. Must have been real special, yeah? Since she made you.” 

“I don’t know. I won’t ever know.” He looks out at the Tevinter procession, at all the fluttering banners. “What if I’m related to someone down there?” 

“Well, buggery then,” she says swiftly, “because ain’t none of them as much fun as your Sera. You want to throw some pies?”

Felix laughs. “I promised Tam no pranks.” 

“Well I didn’t promise nothing,” she snorts, and offers him her hand. Grinning, he takes it.

 

* * *

 

 

Dorian stands beside Cullen, behind Josephine and Evelyn, with his arms folded tight across his chest and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Stroud, clinging to her mother’s hand, looks over her shoulder and gives him a wave. He smiles back. 

“Are you alright?” Cullen asks, once his daughter has turned away. Dorian’s smile fades. “Do you need anything? If someone is unpleasant to you or Bull—”

“Cullen,” Dorian sighs, and the commander falls silent.

The front of the procession approaches the castle, escorted on either side by Cullen’s men. The Inquisition’s troops have the look and manner of real soldiers now, disciplined and steadfast, and Dorian feels a swell of pride. They look every big as capable as the Tevinter warriors astride their massive destriers.

The lead guard parts, and Dorian grins when Maeveris Tilani snaps her reigns and urges her mount forward. Two of her vassals hurry to keep up with her, sighing their resignation when she swings down from her horse and throws her arms around Evelyn’s shoulders before the Inquisitor can get out a word.

“ _Evie_ , darling, you look _wonderful!_ Oh, it’s so good to see you—Dorian, love, come here—”

He laughs and pulls her in for a hug, wheezing a little when she squeezes him back. “Mae. Welcome back.”

Cullen goes for a handshake and gets hugged as well. Meanwhile, two magisters bring their steeds forward, waiting for their vassals to prepare dismounting stools before swinging down from their mounts. The man approaches first—he’s younger even than Dorian, his eyes narrow and shrewd, mouth turned down at the corners.

“Magister Caius,” Evelyn says. Dorian reaches forward and takes Stroud’s hand so the Inquisitor can move forward to greet their guests. Stroud sticks her thumb in her mouth and wraps her other arm around Dorian’s leg. “And Magister—”

“Floriana Agrippa, dear, I’m ashamed to say we haven’t corresponded,” Caius’s companion quips. She seems almost too old to still be a magister. Her silver hair falls in waves around her shoulders, and she wears black, in stark contrast to the gold and crimson clad magisters who are pulling their horses up behind her. She grasps Evelyn’s hand in what seems to be an iron grip. “I hear the Pavus boy is in Skyhold.” 

“I am,” Dorian speaks up, before Evie can try to deflect. He offers the woman his hand. “A pleasure to see you again, Magister Agrippa”—whom he only _vaguely_ remembers from his brief stint with the Magsterium.

Much to his surprise, she kisses his knuckles—and then _winks_ at him, like they’re old friends. “You, young man, caused quite the stir when you abruptly left Tevinter, _again_ , to rejoin the Lady Trevelyan here.”

“Broke my heart, of course,” Maeveris says, over-dramatic, but the arm she puts around Dorian’s shoulders feel protective. “He always did love to cause a stir.”

“Quite,” Agrippa says, and her eyes stay on Dorian a moment longer before she looks to Evelyn. “Now, I have an absolute _slew_ of magisters all clamoring to meet you, but I daresay they’re dead on their feet and I shan’t inconvenience you with blubbering fools who can’t handle a day’s hard ride. I wonder if we could have these peacocks shown to their quarters.”

Cullen steps forward, swinging his little girl up onto his hip, much to Stroud’s shrieking delight, and Valerius elects to take him to the delegation’s quartermaster while Evelyn invites Agrippa up to the hall.

“We’ll catch up later, dear,” Maeveris assures her, and the moment both women are gone, turns to Dorian with a wide smile. “Where are my little darlings?” 

“Mae!”

Dorian sighs, not surprised in the least when Ashi explodes out of the bushes by the staircase and launches himself at Mae’s knees. She laughs and bends to catch him, hoisting him up with an audible grunt.

“My, but you qunari grow fast! Dorian, whatever will you do if he grows to be larger than Bull?”

“Feel much safer in the event of an invasion, to be sure.” He smiles, taking Ashi’s hand once she’s set him back on his own two feet. “Imekari, want to take Mae to the garden and show her your you-know-what?”

“Actually,” Maeveris pipes up, and smiles apologetically when Ataashi looks crestfallen at once, “Dorian, I wonder if we could have a word? Privately.”

“Ah. Yes, of course.” He looks down and pats Ashi’s hair. “Go find your brother, won’t you? Make sure he stays out of trouble?”

The child bobs his head up and down, and lets Mae kiss his cheek before ducking back into the foliage. Dorian expects Mae to drag him off to the library, but she turns to him with wide eyes and grips his arm tightly.

“Dorian, listen to me. I meant to write ahead and tell you, I really did, but she joined us at the border, and—”

“Mae—wait just a—what are you—”

“I’m sorry,” she says, overriding him, her fingers tightening on his arm almost to the point of pain. “I didn’t know _anything_ about it beforehand, I would have told you—"

“Dorian?”

He goes very still. Her voice crawls along the back of his neck and settles white-hot in his spine. Maeveris swallows and finally releases his arm, gripping his hand instead, eyes fixed over his shoulder. He has never seen her so unsettled. Slowly—very slowly—he turns on his heel, and feels the earth fall away beneath his feet. 

“Mother.”

 

* * *

 

 

 “You there—qunari.”

Bull turns, one brow raised. A magister stands behind him, huffing, her hands on her hips, a massive crate on the ground before her. A few timid servants hover near her, making half-hearted grabs at her luggage, but she waves them off.

“Me?” Bull says mildly.

“Yes, you. I wonder if you’d be so good as to help me with this.”

Bull sighs and looks around the main hall. It’s all hustle and bustle—these magisters can’t seem to travel without bringing their entire house with them, and no one is around to help save for the old woman’s feeble-looking vassals. He shrugs and bends down, hoisting the crate onto one shoulder. Much to his surprise, the woman laughs and claps her hands.

“Excellent! What a show of strength. Thank you, my burly friend, I wouldn’t dare trust these creatures to carry such precious cargo.” She turns to her vassals and waves imperiously. “So long, all of you.”

“There’s quarters downstairs for the castle staff, think that’s where they want you guys bunking down,” Bull says. At his words, the vassals scatter like leaves in the wind, and he doesn’t miss the terror on their faces. Funny, the little pang that leaves inside him. It’s been a long time since anyone’s been scared of him. 

“Now I suppose I’m—where, exactly?” the magister asks.

“Uh. Mage’s tower, I think.” He turns his head at an awkward angle to keep his horn from going through the crate. “What have you got in here?”

“A cauldron,” she replies, “for blood rituals.”

Bull balks, caught somewhere between wanting to drop the crate and run and wanting to be polite, and the woman bursts into laughter.

“Oh, your face! No, my friend, no—merely enchanting crystals. Your lovely enchantress in residence, Madame de Fer, is it?—she wrote ahead, mentioned that the apprentices here were making do with dulled focusing crystals given to them by Fereldan Templars, I thought they might enjoy a change of pace. Which way is the tower?” 

Bull leads her through the main hall, still wary, but as he goes down the steps, the contents of the crate rattle slightly, and it doesn’t sound like a cauldron in there.

“Floriana Agrippa, by the way,” the magister says, offering him a hand, which he shakes awkwardly while trying to maneuver down steps and keep the crate balanced at the same time.

“Bull.”

“Bull! That’s all, is it? Short and efficient. You qunari are an efficient people, I suppose, so I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“I’m Tal-Vashoth, actually,” he says, lightly, and she looks at him in abject surprise.

 “Really! Well, you’re not at all like I’d expected, then. I was under the impression that Tal-Vashoth were nothing short of savage.”

“Yeah, well,” Bull replies, shrugging, “I don’t reckon I’m too bad.”

“Bull, dear?”

He comes to a halt halfway down the stairs and swivels as best he can without one of his horns knocking the crate off his shoulder. Vivienne comes sweeping down the stairs, looking glorious as ever, adorned by her flowing robes and pointed hat.

“Morning, Ma’am.”

“Good morning—what are you doing, darling? Surely that’s too much a burden to your knee?”

“Your knee?” Agrippa looks down and frowns. “Oh my. I didn’t see your brace, forgive me. Are you injured?”

“Nah. Bum leg, been like that awhile. I’m fine, ma’am. And Ma’am. Oh, uh, Ma’am, this is—”

“Magister Agrippa, I suppose,” Vivienne demurs, and floats down the stairs to offer the magister her hand. “We’ve corresponded. I don’t suppose these are the enchanting crystals? You’re so kind to bring them, really. You wouldn’t believe the way Templars regulate them here in the south.” 

“It sounds dreadful, how do they expect young mages to _learn_?”

“Yes, so long as the crystals are tempered, of course, we wouldn’t want anyone to let their magic escape their control—eager little darlings, but dangerous, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Well, naturally, any young mage who has yet to…”

Bull stifles a groan and shifts the crate—why he didn’t think to carry it on his blind side to begin with is beyond him—and he does so just in time to catch sight of Dorian walking fast up the grounds, wiping furiously at his face, and disappearing behind the tavern. 

“Uh,” Bull says, stopping himself before he can go sprinting down the stairs. “Ma’am—and, uh, ma’am—I’m—I have to—”

“Go,” Vivienne says—she, too, is gazing out toward the tavern, and she fixes Bull with a stern look when he hovers. “Put that down, I’ll see to it. Go check on him.”

 “Yes, Ma’am.” He lowers the crate as carefully as he can, and the moment it touches the stairs, he leaps over the edge, landing with a grunt (and ignoring Vivienne’s sigh of exasperation), and takes off at a run.

Dorian leans against the tavern’s back wall, partially hidden by the trees, arms folded tightly against his chest and chin tucked. Bull slows as he approaches, lifting his hands when Dorian jumps at the sound of his footfalls.

“Hey—hey, just me. It’s just me. Kadan?” Bull opens his arms, hesitant, and with a sniffle Dorian pushes off the wall and steps into them, burying his face in Bull’s chest. “Hey. Shh, I’ve got you.” He wraps his arms around Dorian’s back, pressing his mouth into his husband’s hair, and rocks him gently, automatically. “Hey. What happened?”

“My mother,” Dorian says, voice muffled. Bull has to lean down closer to hear. “My mother’s here.”

“Oh. Shit. Dorian.” Bull hugs him a little tighter, at a loss. He knows all he needs to know about Halward—enough that the ‘Vint should be glad he’s dead and not within striking distance of Bull’s axe—but he’s learned next to nothing about the woman Dorian calls Mother. He barely remembers her name, except that it’s something distinctly Vinty. “Did she say something to you?”

“She tried to say hello.” Dorian leans back a little, laughing bitterly, wiping at his eyes. Bull hums and pulls his handkerchief off his belt, dabbing at the smudged kohl, and Dorian offers him a weak, watery smile in thanks. “She said hello, and I ran. Like an absolute _child_. I thought I was past this, Bull. How is it that my parents can still reduce me to such a pathetic lout?” 

“This is something new,” Bull says gently. “You weren’t expecting her, and she’s _here_ , in _your_ home, this time. I think anyone who’s gone through your shit would have reacted the same way.” 

Dorian shrugs one shoulder, sullen. “You wouldn’t have.”

“Wouldn’t have run from my tama, maybe. But if one of these magisters showed up with fruit from Seheron? Or if a fog warrior strode in? I’d throw you and the kids over my shoulder and we’d be in Val Royeaux by nightfall.”

Dorian laughs, a little croaky, but genuine, and Bull draws him close again. “My mother is hardly worse than a warzone, amatus.”

“Hey, that’s totally a matter of perspective. If she’s your warzone, you do whatever you can do to stay safe.”

Another chuckle. Dorian lifts his head, smiling, and nuzzles into the hand Bull cups to his cheek. “You are everything I could have ever wanted in a husband. You know that, don’t you?”

“You do a good job reminding me.” Bull bends down to kiss him, groans when Dorian meets him with soft heat where he expected chasteness. Dorian’s lips part, just slightly, and the press of his body into Bull’s is familiar in all the best ways. “Mm. Kadan. We’ve still got shit to do.” 

“Can you blame me?” Dorian murmurs, standing on tiptoe to whisper in Bull’s ear, and the mercenary shivers. “I’ve been thinking about you all day. After this morning…”

“Shit, yeah.” Bull hooks a hand in Dorian’s belt and tugs him closer, turning to press a firm kiss to his jaw, mouthing down the side of his neck when Dorian whines and presses into him. “Tonight, I promise. Take you apart for hours. Make you forget all the shit from today. Alright?”

“You’re going to make me wait?” Dorian drops back onto his feet, pouting, and Bull can’t stand how badly he wants to kiss those lips back into a smile. “You’re nothing short of cruel, amatus.”

His words jangle Bull’s brain back to reality, and he glances over his shoulder. Ma’am and the magister have left the stairwell. “Oh, yeah. Met one of the magisters a minute ago. Agrippa?” 

“I met her, as well. I met her when I was with the Magisterium, but I hardly remember.” Dorian places a hand on Bull’s chest. “Does she make you uneasy?” 

“Nah. Not exactly.” Bull looks back down at him, shrugging, offers him an easy smile. “Just pretty weird, for a—for someone from Tevinter.” Dorian grins at him cheekily, and Bull bends down to nuzzle his nose. “Hey. Kiss me for a little bit longer. I miss you.” 

“I’m right here, you fool,” Dorian murmurs, and goes to his tiptoes to meet Bull’s mouth halfway.

 

* * *

 

 

“Papa?”

Dorian glances up from his book, and smiles widely at the sight of his eldest son hovering by his bookcase. “Felix. What are you up to?”

Felix shrugs, scuffing his toes against the floor. Dorian sits back in his chair, patting his knee, and Felix scrambles up without hesitation. Clucking his tongue, Dorian picks at a bit of frosting in the boy’s hair and arches his eyebrows.

“I don’t suppose you had anything to do with those cake-covered magisters I saw in the courtyard?”

“Was supposed to be pie, but the kitchens were out,” Felix says, shrugging. Abruptly, he leans forward, snuggling into Dorian’s chest. Taken aback, Dorian sets his book aside and wraps both arms around the child, stroking a hand over his dark curls. 

“Felix? Darling, are you alright?”

A hesitation—Felix picks at a string on his pantleg. Dorian hums, rocking the boy unthinkingly, kissing his hair. The library is his and Ataashi’s favored retreat, their sanctuary; Felix rarely sets foot in his father’s nook, and he has long since stopped letting his parents cuddle him willingly. At Bull’s gentle insistence, Dorian gave up forcing hugs on the child, but he’s missed the contact. He hugs Felix a little closer.

“Imekari,” he says quietly, and Felix sighs.

“It’s gonna sound dumb.” 

“Hardly. I listen to your tam talk all day and all night. Anything you say will sound brilliant in comparison.”

Felix sighs again, more heavily. “Tam’s real smart, though. Really.”

“Yes, of course he is. You know I’m only teasing.” Dorian scratches his fingertips through Felix’s hair, frowning. “Something’s upsetting you. You can tell me what it is. I promise I won’t be angry.” 

Felix shifts. One small hand opens and closes in Dorian’s robes. “I don’t want you to hate me,” he says, so quietly that Dorian almost doesn’t hear.

“ _Felix_.” Dorian taps his nose, smiling when his son looks up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “I could never, ever, in this age or the next, feel anything less than utter adoration for you.” He draws the child close again. The boy’s curls are velvet between his fingers. “I’ve told you, haven’t I? That I named you for my dearest friend in the entire world? Your tam and I love you to pieces.”

His son swallows thickly. He is so small—somehow, Dorian has forgotten, perhaps because Felix is always so keen to emulate Bull, because he is always trying to behave beyond his years, but he is still such a little thing. Dorian can’t recall being six years old. It seems impossibly long ago. 

“I wish my mama was still alive,” Felix blurts suddenly, and then presses his face firmly into Dorian’s shoulder, tensing, as if fearing retribution.

Dorian stills. His heart twists up and aches, more fiercely than it has in—well. Since this child was in his first year, clinging to life in Dorian’s arms, since the first few sleepless nights when Dorian realized he could be a father, if only the little thing could hold on. 

“Felix,” he murmurs, and his voice breaks when the child sniffles. “Oh, dearheart. I’m so sorry.”

Felix sobs, rubbing his face against Dorian’s robes, little fists bunching in the fabric. He cries more loudly than he has in years, and Dorian is suddenly acutely thankful that Solas no longer haunts the floor below. He rocks his son and kisses his sweet-smelling hair. He hums quietly—a lullaby someone must have sung to him when he was a boy. A servant, probably. A maid. Any of the dozens of adults tasked with making sure he survived long enough to be groomed as a magister’s heir.

Felix’s crying doesn’t quite muffle soft footsteps upon the landing, and somehow, Dorian is not surprised to see his mother cautiously round the corner. Aquinea Pavus stops, gripping the bookshelf to steady herself, and her eyes flicker to Felix before lifting to meet Dorian’s.

Dorian stares back at her, stunned, briefly, by the sheer surreality of this moment. To be sitting in Skyhold’s library, cradling the son he’s raising with his qunari husband, while his mother looks on. It’s almost laughable, and perhaps he will chuckle about it later, when his son is not so miserable.

Felix sniffles, lifting his head, and peers up at Dorian before twisting to follow his gaze. One hand tightens in Dorian’s robes.

“Papa?” he asks, in a voice almost too small to be his own, and shrinks against Dorian’s chest when Aquinea takes a hesitant step forward.

“Dorian,” she says, softly, and his hair stands on end. “Is he…?”

“Felix.” He looks down at his son, wiping gently at his tear-streaked face, and offers him a smile. “Can you please go upstairs and wait with Leliana?”

Felix bites his lower lip, looking briefly over at Aquinea, then nods cautiously. Dorian kisses his forehead and eases the child off his lap, getting to his feet and following Felix for a few steps, just far enough to watch his son mount the stairs. Felix stops halfway, peering back at him, before hurrying up to the next landing. The crows begin to squawk, and Leliana’s voice rises in greeting. Dorian has never been more thankful for her eavesdropping.

But now.

He turns back to his mother. The past few years have not been kind to her—her dark hair is peppered now, and the crows’ feet that were all but invisible when he first left Tevinter now reach for her hairline. There are lines of tension around her mouth he has never seen before, and her eyes seem decidedly—subdued. 

“Dorian,” she says, somewhat brokenly—and, much to his shock, suddenly surges forward and puts her arms around him. He stands still, stunned, and she mercifully steps back before he feels the need to return her embrace. “Dorian,” she repeats, her eyes watering, and cups his face in her hands. “Dorian, darling.” 

“Mother,” he replies. The word tastes foreign. “I didn’t…know you were coming.” 

“I thought you might flee if you knew,” she says. Her thumbs stroke over his cheeks. “Are you terribly angry with me? I’m sorry, sweetheart, I just wanted so badly to see you.” 

“I—no. I’m not angry. Surprised, yes.” He feels like his skin is on fire. He takes her wrists—have they always been so narrow, so fragile?—and takes a step away. “Um. Shall we…?”

He indicates the extra chair with a wave of his hand, and she smiles, taking a seat with all the grace he remembers from his childhood. Feeling bizarre, as if he is no longer in his own body, Dorian seats himself across from her, and he and his mother sit for several seconds in long, aching silence.

“You have a child,” she says at length. The weight of her gaze is unnerving. “I thought—especially, with the way you left—I was sure you would never have a child.”

“I—saved him,” Dorian says, awkwardly, shifting in his seat. “From a Venatori splinter cult, when he was a baby. I didn’t sire him. But yes, he is mine.”

“Just yours?”

His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, and he swallows twice to loosen it. “No. Mine and—and my husband’s.” 

The quiet that follows is so heavy, he can feel it resting upon his shoulders. He turns to look out the window, remembers, with aching clarity, gazing out across Skyhold after returning from Redcliffe, remembers Evelyn approaching him quietly, cautiously. His father said they were alike. Too much pride.

Dorian still doesn’t know how to feel.

“Your husband,” his mother says. Her tone has no inflection. Impossible to decipher. A good magister’s wife. Dorian almost smiles. “What—what is his name?”

He looks at her, doesn’t try to mask his surprise. She appears stunned, perhaps shaken, but her expression is earnest. “He’s—different people call him different things. To me, he’s just Bull.”

“Bull.” His mother’s mouth moves—Maker on high, she is _smiling_ , or approaching it. “What a curious name. Where was he born, your Bull?”

Dorian can’t speak for another long moment. He feels a lie curling on the roof of his mouth. He’s an Antivan spice trader, of course, dark-haired and dark-skinned and utterly beautiful, he speaks the common tongue and Antivan and nothing else, he has never spent long nights on Seheron, they never stared up at the same stars with an ocean between them—

“Bull is from Par Vollen,” he says, while he is still trying to decide what to stay. “He’s qunari. Well. He’s Tal-Vashoth now, as of…Maker. It’s been nearly a decade, I suppose. Since the dreadnought.” He leans back in his chair and looks back out the window. That day on the Storm Coast—he can still taste the sea spray in the air, can still feel Bull’s rain-slicked skin, his damp lips, the fingers curled bonelessly in his.

“A qunari,” Aquinea says faintly. Dorian looks at her and almost laughs—she is struggling, clearly.

“Tal-Vashoth,” he repeats, and smiles a little. “He left the Qun. Well. Was ejected.” 

“Ejected?”

“He—made a choice.” Dorian is past pretending that it was Evelyn’s choice. She let Bull pick. “He’s the leader of a mercenary band. He chose his company and the Inquisition over the Qun.” Bull had looked down at him, had touched him, trailed a hand along his cheek. Tender. Probably the first moment Dorian recognized the mad fluttering behind his ribs as love. “He chose me, as well.”

“And you—do you—” 

“Love him?” Dorian prompts. Chuckles. Is he here right now, divulging, at last, the secrets of his life to his mother? “Yes. I love him more than I can articulate. Bull is—the qunari have a word. Kadan.” He presses a hand to his chest, not to help her understand, but because the weight of the dragon’s tooth against his skin is heavy and reassuring. “My heart.”

“Bull,” she repeats, and her brows furrow. Dorian realizes—with a jolt—that she is committing this to memory. The first words they have exchanged since he left Tevinter for good. “And the boy—Felix?”

“Felix.” He nods. “After Gereon Alexius’s son. Do you remember him?”

“Of course.” Aquinea sighs. “I was heartbroken when he died. He was a good man. I always thought—well. I thought, perhaps, that you had feelings for him.”

“For Felix?” Dorian smiles, pillowing his cheek on his fist, and shrugs. “Perhaps in the beginning, before I really _knew_ him. He was my brother, in the end.” 

“He’s a beautiful boy. Your little Felix, that is.”

“Yes. He is. I couldn’t ask for more wonderful children.” 

Aquinea’s eyebrows raise. “Children.”

Dorian bites the inside of his cheek, looking pointedly out the window. “We—yes. Two boys. Our youngest is Vashoth—that is, he never lived under the Qun.”

“But he is qunari?”

Dorian smiles at her. “His horns are just coming in. They itch something terrible. The little darling can hardly stand to go without horn balm for more than a few hours.” He chuckles, strokes his dragon’s tooth again. “Look at us. What are we doing, Mother? Your son has married a qunari and raised two children, and here we are, discussing it as if we were drinking afternoon tea.”

Aquinea snorts and massages her temples. “Forgive me. I was so thrilled at the prospect of seeing you, I didn’t—I didn’t even anticipate that…but of course you would have a life here. Tell me something else, Dorian.” 

“I might as well, I suppose.”

“Are you…” She hesitates, twisting a long strand of hair between her fingers. He has never seen her look so timid, so unsure. “Are you…happy? Did you get what you wanted? You had to leave us, Tevinter, to get it, was it…” 

“Worth it?” he prompts, and she nods. The answer, of course, is yes, but can he say as much without breaking her heart?

 _I don’t want you to hate me_.

“I’m happy,” he says at length. “How could I not be? I have a husband I love, and children I cherish. They are…all I have ever wanted. And more.”

Aquinea smiles, sits forward. “That’s all I wanted for you, Dorian. I—I wanted to come see you to tell you—to apologize. I should have—” Suddenly her eyes fill with tears, and she pauses, pressing a hand to her mouth. “When Halward—when your father—I thought I knew what was best, I thought I knew what would make you happy, and…”

“Mother.” He gets heavily to his feet, closes the distance between them. Crouches down and takes her hands in his. “Would you like to meet my family?”

She laughs, choking on tears, and nods vigorously.

 


End file.
